“Well try again, bitch,” Bullet growled.
CHAPTER 8
Alone among a throng of unfamiliar faces, Dalton's eyes burned into the rough wooden table top. His beer had yet to leave his hand. He occasionally raised the glass to his lips to console hidden wounds.
He had been cruel, he admitted that much. His thoughts too often mirrored only his needs and wants. But was he expected to always reside in the shadow of his wife? Her success, her name. There was nothing quite as demeaning as trying to make your mark and then finding yourself constantly referred to as Lenore Summers’ husband. He was the architect, dammit, she was his wife.
Taking another gulp of the amber liquid, he thought of Jenna getting up and leaving. She had not stomped off like a ten-year-old who had just been told she could not have the Transformers toy in the middle of the supermarket. No, she had simply told him goodnight and left, still dignified, leaving Dalton as the sullen loser. He wished she had stomped off instead. He wanted something to pin on her rather than admit his own temper and psyche.
Things were about to change, though. He finally had the client that could provide him the upward momentum he wanted, to being someone finally. Not just her husband, or well, her ex-husband. With Gavin Bostian in his portfolio, Dalton could finally become Dalton the Architect, his own man to the world rather than on the wrong end of a relationship.
He lifted the glass to his lips. A miniscule drizzle sloshed at the bottom. He sighed and lifted his legs over the bench to order a third ale. On his way to the bar, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Shit, would you just stop already?
Approaching the bar, he allowed the call to go to voicemail. He could only imagine how many messages she had already left, at least five. Each one probably said the same thing, complaining that he was not home yet. Sure, it would be an argument tonight, but how was that any different from any other night, his less than intact mental process reasoned.
Dalton placed his glass on the bar, “Another ale, please.” The bartender nodded, taking the glass and going to work behind the counter. His phone vibrated again. A pulse of aggravation ran up his spine. He shoved his fingers into his pocket and dug the phone out.
Lenore was spelled out on the large LED display just below her portrait. Soft brown hair, green eyes and rosy cheeks. Dalton pursed his lips and hovered his index finger over the call reject option. It continued to vibrate in his hands. He imagined the number of missed calls was dangerously near tipping into the double digits.
What could he say? There was no scenario in his mind that answering the call would start or end with a jovial little talk. No, but maybe Jenna was right. Maybe he did at least owe her the respect of answering her call. With a sigh, he swiped to answer the call.
“Yes, Lenore,” he huffed into the phone, immediately wishing he could start the call over again without sounding like a complete dick.
A heavy silence followed. No sob or angered condemnation, just silence. Dalton waited for a moment. Maybe she was trying to find the words to really let him have it. Maybe she expected him to grovel, explain, something.
“Lenore,” Dalton tried again, “I’m sorry, I should have answered earlier.”
Still no answer came. On the other end, Dalton detected a faint noise. Breathing. It was faint, but just enough to hear over the line. He squinted and moved away from the bar and over to the staircase leading off the patio where the noise echoed less prominently. He leaned toward the phone as if it might help amplify the sound on the other end.
“Lenore?” he asked.
“How sweet. An apology,” a raspy voice masked in a dark undertone sounded in his ear. There was an odd youthful quality to it. “You really ought to come home, though, Dalton.”
The small hairs on the back of Dalton’s neck stood up instantly as his eyes widened and his heart beat quickened.
“Who is this?” Dalton asked. He tried and failed to keep his voice calm and deliberate. His cheeks went white. The cold fall wind whipped hard against his jacket like a whirlwind.
“That’s not important, Dalton. The important thing is that you come home before anyone gets hurt,” the voice explained. “You don’t want any of your family hurt, do you? Lenore. Mara. Nathan.”
Dalton felt the blood that had drained from his face begin to rise again, the warmth of his anger beginning to boil alongside the fear that ravaged him. Had the voice said Nathan?
“Oh, I forgot. Nathan’s not family, is he? No, that’s right,” the voice laughed. “He’s not supposed to be here, is he? That’s right, he was upstairs screwing your daughter. I’m sure you’re not pleased with that.”
The voice paused to let Dalton take in the thought. Dalton’s mind worked to take in the information over the adrenaline. Suddenly, what Nathan and Mara might have had planned seemed ineffectual under the weight of the unknown voice on the phone. Yes, he wanted to unleash a beating on the boy. How many times did he have to deal with the kid before he would respect his decision? It didn't matter right now, though. His mind shot back to the raspy voice. In steps, his anger re-centered on the unknown person behind the call.
“Let me help you out with that,” the raspy voice said and went silent for a moment. Suddenly, screams echoed through the line. Mara! Lenore!
“What are you doing?” Dalton yelled into the phone, ignoring the odd looks his yells received on the patio. “What are you doing?”
On the other end of the line, Dalton heard Mara’s voice raging above the others, “No! Don’t do it! Nathan!” Her screams turned into agonized squalls and then suddenly attenuated to sobbing. The other voices quieted.
“What did you do?” Dalton asked again, his voice beginning to shake.
“I fixed the problem,” the voice came back on the line. “Well, I almost fixed the problem. You might have to clean up a little bit once he finally bleeds out, but the bright side is you won’t have to worry about him screwing your daughter anymore.”
Dalton dropped to the ground, letting his legs flail onto the stair steps below him. He gripped the railing with his free hand. He felt as if the breath had been sucked right out from his lungs by some cruel vacuum in outer space. His mind went blank, aimless.
“Why?” was all he could muster.
“Well, I mean if you’re having second thoughts about the boy, you might should hurry home. He…” the voice paused as though he was calculating some figure, “Well, he might have twenty minutes left.”
“Don’t touch my family,” Dalton’s words trembled despite all the anger he placed behind them.
“Well, then come home, Dalton,” the voice said. “Oh, and no cops and no help. That would just sully all the fun.”
For a few moments, there was silence and Dalton. He was about to hang up and make a dash for his car when the raspy voice spoke up again. This time the voice seemed almost gleeful but with a hint of something darker, something deep and ominous.
“Hurry home, Dalton. Before I kill them all.”
“Why?” Lenore pleaded, her voice barely audible behind the tears. “Why?”
“Why not?” Freddie asked, kicking Nathan lightly in the side while he lay flat on his back on the rough tan tile floor. The boy was grasping his neck, trying and failing to hold back the blood rolling from the open wound. It was beginning to paint the tile a red hue. His breathing came in spasms, more from fear than the injury. His face had already went pale, his thick arms focused only on the life pouring from his neck.
“Stop whining, asshole,” Freddie chided the once strong and confident boy on the floor.
“Stop it,” Mara screamed at him. “Stop it!”
She jumped from her seat, arms up and ready to unleash on Freddie. Her fists met Freddie’s chest, clashing against soft flesh under the cold façade. Freddie jerked with the first blow, not expecting the attack, but quickly rebound, pressing her backward and onto the couch.
“Don’t touch her,” Lenore yelled, reaching out, beginning to move to her daughter’s a
ide as Skull-face reminded her of the blade at her neck, letting the metal sink dangerously into her neck, just enough to frighten her but not enough to cut.
“Sit down!” Bullet railed angrily. He stared at them through the sockets of his white mask for what seemed like minutes. The sobs continued, but no one moved. “Oh my god, just be still.”
“Why?” Lenore asked. Her mind needed answers. Why had they hurt Nathan? Why had they doomed him to bleed out on the floor? Why had they broken in? Why did they not just take what they wanted and leave?
“Why?” Bullet repeated the question. “If you’re asking about poor Nathan here, well, one, he deserved it. Two, it should light a fire under your husband’s ass, right?”
He paused, waiting for a response. None came from Lenore. He huffed and then continued, “Or why did we come at all? It’s Halloween, Lenore. We’re just having a little All Hallows’ Eve fun. Right?”
Behind the mouth slit in his mask, the grin on his lips expanded and eyes became narrow horizontal slits which dug into her. She trembled.
“You know all about the fun we’re going to have, Lenore,” Bullet said.
She looked at him quizzically through tear-stained eyes. How did she know? She frowned even more.
“You’ll understand soon enough,” Bullet explained cryptically.
Lenore's eyes followed the boy as he turned and walked the few steps to Nathan’s side where he knelt beside the bleeding boy. He reached down and tried to pry Nathan’s hands away from his neck. The boy fought him, feebly. Bullet reared back and punched Nathan across his right cheek. Nathan groaned. Bullet tried again and managed to pull back Nathan's palms. He examined the laceration he had inflicted minutes before.
“Hm,” Bullet muttered. “It’s starting to clot up. Can’t have that now, can we?”
Deliberately, Bullet reached down with his left hand and placed his thumb and index fingers on each side of the bloodied cut and pressed down and out. The tiny bit of scabbing tore open with a nasty wet noise and blood poured out more quickly again. Nathan screamed in agony as he began to kick and jerk.
“Hold him down!” Bullet yelled at his comrades. Without hesitation, the two boys pinned Nathan’s body to the ground, Freddie latched down on Nathan's legs and Skull-face’s hands found purchase on his hips.
With his free hand, Bullet brought his crooked blade around and let it touch down again on the fresh wound. He carefully and slowly drew back the blade, slicing a layer deeper into the tender skin. Nathan's body jolted and jerked as the blade glided through his pink skin and blood started to flow more freely.
Something in the horrible scene before her kept Lenore from turning her eyes. Her stomach churned, begging her to look away. Mara screamed, pleading with them to stop.
"Stop!" Mara yelled. "Please stop!"
As Bullet lifted his blade, the trio let go of their grip on Nathan. His hands latched to his neck again where the blood flowed freely, the wound deeper. He didn’t scream this time. He just stared up at the sky, his eyes wide and steadfast on some unknown point on the ceiling. His breaths came in quick stuttered beats.
“Are there any weapons in the house?” Bullet asked, looking at Lenore whose eyes were glued to Nathan. “Hey, I’m talking to you, bitch! Are there any weapons in the house?”
She snapped out of it, shaking her head to try to clear her thoughts. It didn’t help, but she was at least able to compute what Bullet had asked. She wished she had a different answer, maybe it would have given her a chance.
“No,” she answered.
“Are you sure?” he asked again. “I don’t want any surprises.”
“There are knives in the kitchen, but no weapons,” she assumed he meant guns or tools meant specifically for killing, but her set of culinary knives could be just as dangerous.
Bullet eyed her for a moment, boring those black orbs into her soul. Freddie crouched over Nathan’s head, knife ready. Skull-face stood beside Bullet, his unknown eyes probably staring back at her as well.
“Good,” Bullet finally said. “Because if I find anything, we might be inclined to make use of them.”
He let his eyes break away from Lenore. He looked to Skull-face and barked a passive order. “Search the house for weapons. Make sure she’s not lying to us. And close and lock all the windows.”
Laughter and the barrage of forty, fifty, maybe eighty voices buffeted Dalton as he attempted to think, to divide up the alarms that rang in his mind. The gentle glows of tiki torches dotted the patio, lighting up the area under a cloudy night sky.
Could any of this be real? Was it some elaborate trick his mind was playing on him? Had he totally lost it? He pushed aside the notion. He may have problems in his life, who didn’t, but he was not crazy. He just knew he wasn’t.
Were Lenore and Mara safe? Aiden? Aiden was at the party, and then he was going to Mason’s house, right? Right. He should be fine. But the girls? Had they hurt them? Touched them? The thought sent a boiling pulse of anger through Dalton’s body. He took a deep breath. And what about Nathan? What had he been at the house for? Did it really matter now? No. Had the person behind the phone killed him? Please no.
No cops, alone. That had been the only rule given by the voice. Dalton raised to his feet abruptly and sudden dizziness shook him. Dammit. He grasped the railing and took the stairs slowly at first, then accelerated until he hit the gravel and then sprinted for his Beemer. His finger fumbled for the tiny lock button on the door handle and eventually hit it, earning a Beep, Beep and two accompanying amber flashes from the turn signals.
He slung the door open and slid into the front seat. He tried to even his breathing as he depressed the START button and the engine roared to life. He tapped the steering wheel-mounted shifting paddles and shifted the manual transmission into reverse. It would take him at least fifteen minutes to get home in normal traffic at the speed limit. Nathan might not have that long, though.
Dalton rammed the accelerator and dropped the clutch. Gravel dinged the undercarriage and the car yanked backwards as the tires gained traction among the rocks. The BMW swooped around and came to a jolting stop as Dalton hit the brake.
He shifted into first gear and took off, gravel flying as his tail end fished out for a brief second before catching and sending him flying forward. His back pressed against rich scarlet leather bucket seats. Dalton was glad when the road transitioned from gravel to asphalt and the tail end of the Beemer stopped shimmying back and forth on the solid surface. At the parking lot exit, Dalton did a precursory glance in both directions before shooting out onto the four lane. He careened across the first two lanes and found a home in the third lane, earning a loud screech from his tires and a few others along with a flurry of angry horns.
Dalton’s foot and mind fought on how to control the accelerator. He had to avoid being stopped by the authorities on his way home but he had to get home quick. Reluctantly, he gave into reason. He let off the accelerator a little. He decided that ten to fifteen over was going to have to be enough until he hit the more rural roads where he could drop the accelerator to the floor.
The BMW maneuvered around a slow moving Toyota sedan. Dalton pushed the accelerator, fighting to keep the needle below sixty. He wanted to engage the emergency flashers and lay down on the accelerator, to cut the time home in half and, and what? What am I going to do?
What could he do? Maybe he could snatch a pair of hedge clippers from the storage room? But if he entered the driveway, he knew the driveway chime would sound off in the living room and kitchen. They would know he was coming before he could get closer than two hundred yards from the house. Maybe he could park out on the main road and sneak onto his own property and get one of the shovels before sneaking around back and through the back door.
Minutes later, after nearly running two other cars off the road, he cut off the main highway and onto a small state road only a few miles from his home. Dalton floored the accelerator and leaned into the curves, letting the low sitt
ing BMW dig its haunches in and pull him around. Suddenly, the car speakers rang. An incoming call. His eyes shot to the center console where Lenore’s photo and name appeared on the LED display. He put his eyes back on the road and gulped before pressing Answer.
“What do you want?” Dalton challenged the voice. He grimaced, unsure it was the best tactic.
A second of silence echoed over the speakers before the raspy voice came through, “Just a warning. If I so much as think you’re trying some brave heroic shit or the cops are coming, I’ll slit both their throats. Right in front of you.”
Dalton was stunned silent, his arms stiffening as he mounted another curve. A tire left the blacktop and the BMW bounced on the rough shoulder, bringing Dalton back to himself.
“Did you hear me, Dalton, or do I need to go ahead and kill them now? It'd be a shame if you weren't here yet, to witness it.” The voice became more authoritative before it softened in a false sense of empathy.
“I hear you,” Dalton blurted as quickly as he could manage.
“Park in the garage. Come in with your hands visible, pockets empty,” then the connection ended.
Eyes glued to the steady path of the bluish-white beams on the pavement in front of him, Dalton kept the car moving. His options had suddenly vanished into thin air. If he tried anything that might give him an upper hand, however slight it may be, it would immediately be met with Mara and Lenore’s death, if the man behind the phone was true to his threat. Dalton did not feel like testing him.
The two-lane road became curvier as he closed in on his street and made the turn onto Rankin Road. The maples and sycamores that lined the road suddenly appeared ominous, a quarter of their branches barren and ghastly, the others reflecting shades of red and orange back down to him. A heft of the dead leaves blew up over his hood and then fell haphazardly to the ground.
The decorations on their closest neighbor’s house were now disturbing as he passed the large Victorian home. Eerie oversized spider-webs, glowing jack-o-lanterns and a set of skeletons along the front porch, and the lonely headstones jutting unevenly from the ground. Dalton swallowed.
To Watch You Bleed Page 9
