by J. D. Weston
"George?" came the muffled and groggy reply.
"Sir, are you okay?"
"Not really, George, no."
"Are you chained to a tree?" asked George.
"And hooded," he confirmed.
"I'm guessing you both are too?" said Harris.
Melody didn't reply.
"How many of us?" asked Harris. "Do we know?"
"Three of us, as far as I can make out," said Melody. "I don't suppose you boys bothered to call uniforms for backup?"
"How do you know we're police?"
"She shot our tyre, sir."
"She what?" said Harris, louder than he meant to. He lowered his voice to a hiss. "It was you? In the camper?"
"You shouldn't have come," replied Melody flatly. "This isn't the place for a small town detective. You're in way over your heads."
"Tell me something I don't know," said Harris.
Melody heard him test the chains and then succumb to the fact that he was stuck.
"Hang on," said George. "The camper? There were two of you. Where's the driver? The small guy?"
Something landed on the ground to their left with a thud.
It began to whimper.
"Reg, you're okay. You're with us."
She was quietened by a hard hit to the side of her face.
The temptation to call out to Harvey was strong, but the two police didn't need to know about their relationship. It would cause distrust, and right now, they needed to stay together.
Reg moaned as he too was bound to the tree with chains.
"Melody?" he called. "Are you there?"
"We're here, Reg," she replied. "Don't worry. We're all here."
"The detectives?" he asked hopefully.
"We're here," they both said at once.
"I don't suppose you-"
"Called backup?" finished Harris. "No, I'm afraid not."
The sound of a spade digging into the ground silenced them all. Melody tried hard to see through the tiny holes in the canvas, but it was no use. He was digging. A rhythm built up somewhere to Melody's left, beside the fire.
A sharp rasp, as the spade sank into the earth. A dirty crunch, as it was forced backwards. Then the scatter of dirt onto a pile.
A hole?
To bury them all?
She fought back tears and a small part of her was thankful for the hood. She didn't need the men to see her cry.
It's not over yet. She told herself.
George began to cry again. Melody heard him quietly. She heard him try to refrain, to hold it in, but he'd broken with a loud sob and the gates had opened.
It was too much for Melody.
"You pig," she spat.
The digging stopped.
"I thought you were better than this," she continued. "But you're not. You're just a cold-blooded killer. You deserve to go to prison. You deserve to rot in hell."
She felt him stand in front of her. His presence darkened the limited light that the canvas allowed. Melody trembled. She no longer knew the man who stood in front of her.
She could hear his breathing.
"Stop," she whispered, so only he could hear. "It's not too late."
She felt a finger on her throat, below the thick chain that held her bound to the tree.
"What are you doing?" she said. A soft unintentional whimper followed. She tried to move away, to slide up and down, anywhere, just away from his touch.
His finger lowered and caught on the neck of her shirt.
"Stop."
He pulled.
"No," she began to beg. "No, no more, just stop."
The shirt began to rip.
Melody cried out.
"Melody, what's happening?" It was Reg.
"Nothing, Reg," said Melody, her voice nearly an octave higher than normal. "Just be cool."
Her shirt fell open, and she felt the warmth of the fire on her skin.
His soft touch ran across her chest.
Tears came silently inside her hood, and she lowered her head.
She was powerless against him. He'd opened her up, he exposed her deepest fears and now flaunted them.
She began to visibly shake.
Her knees buckled, but her throat hung on the chains and forced her to stand straight.
His finger lifted her chin.
"Please, Harvey," she whispered. "No more. It's too much."
He stepped closer.
The shape grew darker.
He kissed her through the thick canvas.
19
A Game of Pain
Harris felt a tug at the back of his hood and heard the clip of cutters on the cable tie, then felt the canvas hood pulled roughly from his head. He breathed in the cool air with an open mouth and groaned.
The hot coals in front were bright on his eyes. He looked down, trying to focus on the ground. There wasn't much to see, just tufts of grass and mud, and a wash of orange that grew and faded with rhythmic intensity.
The man had slipped away, back into the trees as silently as he'd come. Harris was glad. He tried to turn his head to see the tree beside him, but the chains were tight on his throat. All he saw were shapes, four of them.
To his right was open grassland. Beyond the fire, the soft tips of wild grass ebbed and flowed with the breeze, the breeze that he now breathed with pleasure. A man groaned to his left, far away, the furthest tree maybe. But Harris couldn't see. Another groan of pleasure.
Another hood removed?
Who was it? Was it George?
"Tell us what's happening at least," called Harris to their captor.
The killer.
"Tell us why."
The killer didn't reply.
The faint sound of the cutters travelling through the air and the sound of another canvass hood being ripped off a head. Another sound of temporary joy and the sharp intake of air.
That's three of us, he thought.
"George, are you there?" called Harris.
"I am, sir," came the reply.
Harris closed his eyes. He'd gotten George into this; it was on him. If George died, Harris would die. He wouldn't be able to face George's family and tell them what had happened and why.
Why was it happening?
It had all snowballed. Harris saw it now, clear as day. He'd made a connection, George had added solidity to his theory, and now, they were both stood tied to a tree before a fire with a hideous ancient copper bathtub that was almost glowing with heat.
The fire had died down.
Red hot coals shimmered like the fires of hell, and Harris was lost in the movement of light. He imagined the saddened faces of George's children. He imagined Susan's face. The devastation. The shame.
And all the time, why?
"He idolised you," she would say. "He would have followed you anywhere, and you should have known. You should have called for backup."
It's my fault.
Harris craned his neck to see George. But at the furthest reach of his neck, he saw only blurred and dark shadows stood waiting by trees.
Snip.
The final hood was ripped off, and the girl sucked in the cool air just as he had, as they all had.
"Are you okay?" he asked when the shadow had slipped back into the darkness.
"You talk when I tell you to talk," came a harsh whisper from behind his right ear.
It had been almost silent, like the wind or some drug-fuelled imagining.
But it had been real.
Harris took deep breaths, closed his eyes, and calmed his racing heart. The man was obviously sick. Things were out of control.
Was this really his fault?
He thought of his own wife, Patricia, and wondered if she'd be devastated. Harris knew she'd be upset, as any wife might be. But devastated? Not like Susan. In some ways, his death might be a release for her. A release from the grind of daily life they'd developed. A release from the monotonous routine of courteous manners, asking the right questions at the right time, and not
doing certain things to upset the other, or doing other things just to save an argument.
That had been when he'd known his marriage was over, the day he realised that the reason he did certain things for Patricia had turned from enjoying the look of joy on her face to preventing the look of disappointment.
The thick chain that hung from the tree trailed out on the ground beside the fire. It began to pull tight as someone slowly pulled on the loose end.
Harris heard the girl beside him, who was lost to his peripheral vision, begin to question what was happening.
She called him Harvey.
Did she know him?
He failed to see the connection between the camper and the killer. Who were they? What were they doing here? Were they helping him? Were they trying to stop him?
The girl was released from the tree in a clatter of chains and shoved forward onto her knees. Harris saw her face for the first time since she'd looked down the length of the rifle.
The rifle.
It had been military grade. It wasn't an ordinary dad’s got a gun type of rifle; it had been heavy firepower.
A big black boot sprang from nowhere and kicked her in the side.
She didn't move.
She was tough.
Maybe she was military. Maybe they'd been undercover and George and him had been in the way. Maybe that was why they had shot the tyre, to keep them away. But he'd been greedy. George had protested, and he hadn't listened.
It's your fault.
The man wore a hood to hide his face and stepped from the darkness. He pulled on the chain that hung from the thick bough above and fastened it around her neck. Then he dropped a single white envelope onto the ground beside her, before stepping back into the darkness.
"What is it?" whispered Harris. "What does it say?"
She looked up at him. Her tangled flock of curly brown hair hung limply on her shoulders, and her top was ripped open, revealing a white bra. But she didn't seem to care. She didn't try to cover herself.
Had she lost her own fight?
The girl slid a slender finger into the envelope, ripped the paper then pulled the note out. She let the discarded envelope drift with the breeze into the hot coals, where it shimmered and shuddered before curling and burning.
And then it was consumed.
The girl read the note to herself, and then stared at each of the men who stood by the tree.
"So?" said Harris. "Read it to us."
The girl's eyes hung lazily on his.
"What does it say, Melody?" called the other guy, the driver.
Her head turned slowly to face her friend. But then it dropped and hung low, and she let her hand fall to her side. A deathly silence hung in the air as all three men anxiously waited for the girl to speak, their eyes pleading for news, anything, good news, bad news. But Harris' heart knew it would not be pleasant.
The girl took another single short look at all three men once more, just quickly, no eye contact. Then she returned her stare to the note in her hand.
"It's a game," she said.
Shaun sat cross-legged with his arms and legs tied around the tree in front of him with what felt like strips of material. His head rested on the rough bark, which hurt his skin, but he no longer cared. The time for caring about pain was over. The time for escape had passed.
It was his time to die.
At the back of his mind, the idea that his mum would never know this pain he endured eased him. The three years he'd spent crying and wishing he was different had just delayed the suffering process.
The beast had been waiting for him.
It was him. It was the same man. Shaun had seen the eyes. Just like in his dreams. Those cold eyes had shone from the darkness. His strong hands had held him until any morsel of help had been squeezed from his fragile mind.
He wished the end would come soon.
The beast had disappeared into the darkness and left him alone. Somehow, being alone with his thoughts was worse. At least when somebody was near, he wasn't alone.
Shaun heard screams somewhere close by, and a woman shouting, but the tape across his mouth muffled his efforts to join in the cries.
Maybe he wasn't alone in death.
If there was one, maybe there were more. Maybe the beast would offer him a chance of living again, just like before.
Maybe not.
More shouting rang through the trees and fell silently away. No reply came.
No help would come.
"Do you know who I am?" said the beast quietly from behind him in the darkness.
Shaun startled and shook his head. Where did he come from? How is he so quiet?
"But you recognise me?"
Shaun squeezed his eyes shut tight, and shook his head.
"I don't want to know," he mumbled through the tape.
"Do you remember, Shaun?" said the beast. "Do you remember that night?"
Shaun was breathing hard through his nose. He nodded softly, reluctantly.
"So you know who I am then?"
Shaun was silent.
"Do you know why I killed that man that night, Shaun?"
The beast was talking softly, not menacingly and not kindly, just softly.
Shaun nodded.
"You heard his story, didn't you?"
Shaun nodded again.
"Who do you fear the most, Shaun?" asked the beast. "Yourself, with your afflictions, or me, with my own afflictions?"
Shaun shrugged his shoulders.
The beast stood from behind him and began to pace around Shaun. He disappeared into the darkness in front and emerged beside him, then behind him.
"Why do you think I let you go, Shaun?"
Shaun looked behind him, but the beast had moved, vanished into the trees.
He shrugged.
"You were supposed to be my last."
Tears flowed from Shaun's eyes. He wished the beast would just finish him. He wished he'd stop the games. The beast spoke like they were old friends, or like they somehow shared a common affliction or weakness.
The beast lowered himself to the ground beside Shaun, crouched on one knee.
"Do you think this is easy for me, Shaun?"
Shaun stared wide-eyed.
"Do you think that taking a life is satisfying?"
Shaun didn't reply.
"Do you think I'm evil?"
Shaun looked away.
The beast seemed somehow disappointed in his response. It was almost as if behind those cold eyes was a heart, or a genuine desire to be liked. He turned to face him again and understood.
"People think you're evil, Shaun. Yet you try so hard not to be. Do the voices inside you battle over good and bad, Shaun?"
Shaun nodded.
"Is it like the goodness inside you tries to keep the evil away?"
Shaun nodded. He was breathing hard and wanted the tape to be removed from his mouth so he could reply.
Somebody understood.
"Do you ever wonder if the good will win the battle?" said the beast. "Or does some part of you realise that no matter how hard you try, no matter what good you do, the evil inside you will strike when you're weak, and destroy everything you've worked for?
Shaun nodded softly, blinked once, and let the tears roll.
"Do you want to beat it?"
20
Sacrifice
Melody knelt on the ground with the hot coals warming her back and the note in her hand. A shadow passed through the trees in front of her, behind the men. He was silent. He was toying with them, and now the end was near.
To her right was a large hole, more like a grave, only half as deep. But deep enough for a body or even four.
"Tell us what it says," said the detective, the one in charge.
His voice stirred Melody from a daze. So much had happened, and there was so much yet to come.
"We're all going to die," said Melody, softly and with a hint of acceptance.
The three men all reacted in t
heir own way.
She looked up at the second detective, who emitted a high-pitched whine that turned into a sob and then full on crying, like how a child might cry. She felt for him. Harvey used to say that fear was stage one in the process.
The detective on her far left became angry. Harvey would be watching from the shadows, and he would call that stage two.
She couldn't look at Reg. But she heard him breathing loudly, controlling his thoughts. Reg wasn't a tough guy, but he'd seen enough of Harvey to know that this was real. Reg was at stage three, acceptance.
"How?" spat the man on the far left. "How is he going to kill us? He can't boil us all."
Melody pulled at the chain around her neck and noted the length.
It was perfect.
She looked around the scene and saw the last tree, empty of prisoners, and she thought of Shaun. Maybe that was where he was supposed to have been standing. Why wasn't he there?
Melody glanced into the angry water that simmered in the bathtub. It was dark, but she could see the water was clear, not bloody. Shaun hadn't been boiled before they'd arrived.
The van.
"Are you going to talk to us?" said the man on the left. "We deserve to know."
Melody snapped back to the game.
"I have to choose one person," she said.
"Choose?" said the man. "What do you mean, choose?"
"One of us will be dropped into the tub, and I have to choose who."
"What if you don't choose?"
"Then it's me that boils,” said Melody bluntly.
"And the rest of us?"
Melody took a deep breath and sank lower onto her knees.
"I have to kill two of you," said Melody. "The third person..."
She looked back at the fire and stared transfixed at the claw-foot tub.
She felt Reg's eyes boring into her. She turned to face him. Their eyes met. An understanding passed silently between them.
A single tear ran from Melody's eye.
"So you get to live?" asked the man on the left. "You get to go free after this?'
"Free?" snapped Melody. "Do you realise what I've been told to do? Do you think that by doing this, I'll somehow skip out of here and live happily ever after?"
"You know him," he replied. "You said his name. I heard you. It was you in the camper, you shot at us, and you're part of this, him as well." He gestured at Reg, who had hung his head low but flinched at the attack. "And where's the pervert? Is he in the van? Isn't that for him?" He nodded at the bathtub in the coals.
