“Who are you?” Dalton asked weakly, fear and rage shooting through his veins.
“Oh, we’ve met, Dalton,” Bullet said. “We’ve met.”
Scrunching his brow, Dalton let himself try to place the boy in his memory, the voice, the eyes, anything. Nothing came to the forefront.
“I’ll help you remember, Dalton.” Bullet let what might’ve been a grin cross his lips through the rage. Then he reached a finger behind his head and hooked the strap holding his mask on.
“What are you doing?” Freddie asked.
“Shut up, Joe,” Bullet began, using Freddie’s real name. “This was the plan all along, except for Aiden.”
“What? You said we’d keep the masks on. That no one would ever know who we are and we’d leave!” Freddie, or Joe, railed back.
“Stop being so damn naïve, Joe,” Bullet blasted back. “Do you really think the cops won’t figure it out anyway? Seriously? I came here for one purpose, and I’m not leaving until I’m done and you best go along.”
Joe took a step back, grunted, but nodded.
Bullet turned to look at Olly to let him know that stood for him, too. The pale faced kid nodded irritably.
Reaching behind his head again, he pulled up on the strap the held the white mask with the singular bullet hole in the middle. The mask began to droop down and then fell from his face and clattered to the floor.
His face was white and untanned, his full lips giving way to a broad chin and sloping neck. His nose was a gentle slope between those coal black eyes and thin cheeks. There was something familiar in that face, something Dalton could not place.
“Remember me now?” Bullet asked with a mischievous grin.
Straining to find the boy’s young face in some memory, Dalton shook his head slowly.
Bullet sighed. “Three years ago, this very night, you looked right in my eyes just like now. The same fear. The same cowardice. And it was raining.”
Suddenly, an image surfaced in Dalton’s mind. The same eyes, the same face, only younger.
CHAPTER 19
He was outside, stumbling in a heavy rain. He lost his footing and almost dropped to the wet grass before he caught himself. His head felt light as the rain pounded against his face.
Suddenly, a bright light seared his vision and for a brief moment it seemed that the night had vanished and the sun had decided to shine for just a second. Then it was gone. The shadows of night and the storm covered every inch of the country road. Dalton stumbled again, one drink too many, maybe two, or three. He wasn't sure how many he had consumed at the bar. All he was sure about was that someone had wrecked. Had he caused it?
He shook his head, trying to clear the murky thoughts that were slowly running around up there. He stumbled again, his foot stuck in a fresh rut of mud. It must have been where the car's front end had buried into the ground before flipping end over end on the edge of the road into this small field.
Dalton regained his footing. Then he heard something. He turned to look back toward the road where his Beemer sat on the side of the road still running, headlights cutting through the rain and shadows. It came again, a voice, muffled but obviously scared. It was coming from the wrecked car. He pivoted around slower than he thought. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision again. Dalton stumbled forward a few more steps. The voice kept screaming.
"Help!" It was a small voice, a boy's he thought.
Dalton stepped quicker, trying to keep his balance despite the amount of alcohol running through his system. Closer now, he got a better look at the car. It was an older model Camry, silver, the door panel was banged in pretty badly and it had come to its final resting place upside down. The passenger window frame was half the size it should have been. Dalton placed a hand on the undercarriage of the car which was facing the sky, half to validate to himself that this was real and half to keep his balance. His head continued to spin, his limbs jerking to keep their balance. He dropped to his knees. Water jumped up onto his trousers and he could feel the wetness of the mud seeping in through his jeans around the knees.
"Hurry!" the young voice called out. There was a gentle raspy tone in that voice, young and undeveloped, but it was there.
He leaned over, willing his head to calm down as he tried to peer into the vehicle, to find the owner of the voice. At first he saw nothing, it was so dark and the rain made it hard to keep his eyes open.
"Please help!" the boy begged. "The door won't open. My brother's hurt."
Hurt. The word ran through Dalton's mind. Without thinking, he reached for the door handle and began to pull on the door, yanking and wrenching back and forth. It didn't budge. Dalton looked back into the car, still he only saw faint shadows. Then a bright show of lightning lit up the sky. There he was. Pale white skin, dark black hair and black eyes. Dalton shivered, he wasn't sure if it was the eyes or the fact that the boy was stuck in this wreck that shook him most. In the same instant, he saw an older man hanging upside down and limp from the driver's seat.
"Is he alive?" Dalton slurred, his body unsteady. The mud seemed to be encasing his knees, the water growing higher as he sank in the mud.
"No," the boy said matter-of-factly.
Dalton's eyes went wide. Water poured onto his pupils but he didn't care.
"Oh no! No, no. No. No. No." It was all Dalton could think to say as the alcohol swam through his system. He fell back onto his hindquarters and then crawled away from the vehicle like some demonic spirit laid within it.
"Wait!
Dalton shook the images from his mind. His eyes went wide. He stared up at the boy, into those baleful eyes.
"You remember me now, don't you?" Bullet said. Dalton felt like the boy had reached into his mind and drew out the memory. He had done a lot to repress it, to forget it. Bullet smiled.
"No." Dalton tried to lie, hoping that somehow it would help.
"Don't insult me! You killed my dad and my brother!" Bullet screamed viscously, spit flying from his mouth. Freddie removed his mask revealing the black-faced boy Dalton had witnessed earlier.
As the words shot from his mouth, Mara's eyes glistened with recognition. She looked to her father, confused. Dalton met her gaze, frowned and tried to think of what to say. He couldn't lie anymore.
"Honey, no," Dalton began, trying to keep his voice from stuttering. "I didn't kill them, I promise. I... I..."
"Come on, Dalton, tell your precious little girl how you screwed up my life," Bullet continued to scream. "Tell her how you took everything from me. Everything!"
"I..." Dalton began to stutter. How do I explain? Why? "I... I was drunk."
"Drunk or sober, who gives a shit? You were there, you caused my dad to run off the road. You came all the way to the car. You even spoke to me. And then you ran like a fucking coward. You left us to die."
"I'm sorry," Dalton stammered. "I was scared, I was..."
"And you left us to die, like dogs. I held my little brother in my arms and watched him die. I lied to him, told him it would be okay, and you left us there. You left us to die."
"I'm sorry. I wasn't myself... Chase." Dalton stopped after speaking the boy’s name. He had run from that day for so long. Three years. Had it really been three years? The authorities had ruled the accident the driver's fault, the boy's dad. They said it was a cut-and-dry case of drunk driving and bad weather from the amount of vodka in the man's system. Chase, the kid who screamed for help, the owner of those deep black eyes, the mad teenager that stood in front of him now wielding a menacing black pistol in one hand and a large curved knife stashed between his pant and belt.
He remembered watching the news clip online the day after. He'd taken a sick day and drove to another bar where he drank away his guilt. He knew it was stupid, he had been drunk the night before, when it had all happened. Now the only way he could imagine to cope was to return to the same bottle that had put him in that precarious situation. He had imagined the authorities showing up at his door. Cuffing him and
taking him away. He'd watched the news religiously for days, waiting, knowing it wouldn't be long before they came for him. But they never came.
He had memorized the facts of the crime, knew them better than anyone else but Chase. Eric Miller had been thirty-four years old, the father of three boys, Reily, Chase and Dusty Miller. Reily had died of a drug overdose two years earlier at the age of sixteen. Chase had been thirteen at the time of the accident and his younger brother was only nine. The news station said their mother had died in child birth with their youngest. Chase was all alone now, except for a few relatives, and it was all his fault.
"So you know my name," Chase stated, the anger settling but still on reserve. "And that's all you have to say? Did you know that after the wreck, after my brother..." the boy stuttered. He fought back a tear, it was a scene Dalton had thought impossible just minutes before. "...after he died, and my dad. Did you realize that I had no one left? No one that really cared at least? Sure, they packed me up and sent me to live with my uncle and aunt."
Bullet, or Chase, stopped for a second. He dropped his eyes to the floor and then locked eyes again with Dalton. "Do you know what that was like? Do you know?"
"No—" Dalton tried before Chase cut him off.
"Of course you don't!" Chase bellowed, the anger boiling over now. He swung the pistol precariously back and forth. "Of course you don't! How could you know? It's not like you gave a damn about me. You didn't care that you sent me to live with them. To a bunch of sickos, druggies." He nearly spat his words. "Worthless pieces of shit. Do you know what they did to me?" he asked, but he didn't stop long enough for Dalton to answer. "They said I was costing them too much money, that I was dragging them down, that I had to be useful."
The boy stopped for a moment and wiped the spit from his lips. When he continued, he spoke quieter, slower. "Do you know how many times they beat me? Every week, sometimes every day! For the last three years. And it's all your fault!"
Dalton jerked back in his seat as Chase screamed those last five words.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't mean for all this to happen. I promise. You don't understand how—" Dalton pled before the boy cut him off. Tears of guilt and fear trailed down his face. Mara sat half in shock on the couch, trying to take it all in.
"Of course you didn't mean for it to happen," Chase agreed. "But it did and you just acted like it would all go away while I suffered. Every. Single. Day. Because of you."
"Is that what this is all about?" Dalton asked, realizing how stupid a question it was but needing to hear the answer. "Was this all to punish me?"
"Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner," Chase jeered, mimicking the voice of some prize announcer as if none of the mayhem, the blood and bodies, laid piled up around them. Then his face went sober, his eyes narrowed and he stepped forward. He placed his free hand on the head of the leather recliner Dalton sat in. He dropped down and let his forehead make contact with the crown of Dalton's head and brought the pistol up to Dalton's temple. "And I'm not done yet."
His whole body shook as the barrel of the gun rested at his temple. All it would take was one little squeeze and it would all be over. But would it be that bad? It would be over. All of the past he was running from would be over, everything that had gotten between him and his family, the pain that he'd suffered the past three years. It would end. No. Suddenly he hated himself for the thought, the selfishness that had pulled him in. Mara. I have to be here for Mara!
"Well, it looks like it's time for the next person to die," Chase said calmly. He was no longer mincing words, or at least he was no longer hiding the truth. The boy stood up and moved between Olly and Joe. He huffed and pursed his lips like the thought vexed him. The pistol moved in Mara's direction.
"Please no. Let her live," Dalton pleaded. "She has nothing to do with this. She isn't to blame! I am! Me!"
"Yes, you are. But she's a lot like you," Chase said, nodding apologetically. "I see how she is in school, and she's just too much like you. Plus, it'll hurt you."
"Please!"
Without warning, Chase redirected the pistol, his arm outstretched to his right. Bang! A quick flash of flame exited the barrel before the side of Olly's head blew open. Blood and bits of brain splattered onto the floor, the wall. His body crashed to the floor. He hadn't even known what hit him.
"What the—" Joe yelled, confused and scared.
"Shut up!" Chase screamed at Joe and then looked at the boy soberly. "He disobeyed."
It felt like a warning, as much as it did payback for a slight. Joe swallowed and stared back at Chase, horror written on his face. He nodded slowly.
"Aiden was supposed to survive. He was good, a friend. Not like this piece of trash," Chase pointed his gun carelessly at Dalton and then looked down to Olly's corpse. "And this idiot screwed it all up!"
A friend? Aiden?
Chase seemed to catch the question in Dalton's eyes, though his statement felt out of place. "We go to school with your kids."
"Oh." It was all that would come to Dalton's mouth.
At his feet, Olly's body was strewn over the floor. Blood coalesced about his head, turning his already red hair a darker shade as it soaked in the pungent liquid. Then Dalton saw a chance. The kid's knife. The long bloodied weapon laid only a few feet from Dalton's feet and it seemed that neither Chase nor Joe were worried about picking it up.
Dalton catalogued the location of the knife away in his memory and looked back up at the angry alpha male. He met eyes with the boy whose life he had ruined, and who was bent on ruining his. Chase moved, slowly and deliberately, across the room to where Mara sat and stopped beside her. In the blink of an eye, he had his blade over her neck. He bent down and whispered in her ear just loud enough for Dalton to hear while his eyes dug into Dalton's red-veined sky blues.
"Are you ready to die, Mara?"
"No! Please no," Mara begged, sobbing uncontrollably. "Daddy, help, please!"
"That's right, beg him to save you, Mara. Oh Daddy, please save me," Chase mocked her.
"Stop it! Let her go! It's me you want! Let her live!" Dalton begged, groveled. He leaned forward, keeping his hand low and ready for when the moment arrived. "Please let her go! Baby, just look at me. It's going to be all right."
The blade moved, but it didn't touch her. Chase grinned. Unexpectedly, Joe stepped forward, "I thought we were taking her with us?"
"Change of plans, Joe... Well, not really," he said matter-of-factly. Dalton wondered how much Chase had been using these two, how much he had manipulated them to get them to go along. It didn't matter. All that did was keeping Mara alive.
"Come on, man," Joe tried. "But she was supposed to be our reward for helping you. You keep changing the plan!"
"It is my plan," Chase countered. "It's her time."
Suddenly, Joe shoved his hands into Chase's chest and plowed him to the ground, pushing the blade aside. The boys fell to the floor by the couch, tussling in the floor. The blade clashed against the tile and Dalton heard a fist find purchase.
It was now or never. Dalton jumped from his seat and scooped up the long curved knife, trying to ignore the blood on its handle, Aiden's blood.
"Run, Mara! Run!" Dalton yelled. "Go for help!"
She hesitated, scared to move, scared to leave her dad. He yelled for her to go one more time and she came to, lifted herself from the couch and bolted for the kitchen.
The scuffle on the other side of the room went silent and both boy's popped up over the arm of the couch. By the time they looked, Mara was half-way across the living room and Dalton was on his feet with a knife in hand.
"Dammit! You fool!" Chase yelled at Joe. "Get her! Do whatever you want with her, but make sure she ends up dead! Go! Dalton's mine."
Chase flipped the pistol around in his hand and passed it to Joe. "Finish her off."
CHAPTER 20
Her feet pounded up the stairs, struggling to keep up with the beat of her heart. It felt like it might burst under al
l the pressure, the loss.
Joe had not said a word yet, but Mara knew he was hot on her heels, and there was no telling how that would end if he caught her. Mara pushed the thought from her mind and instead focused on getting up the stairs. Her foot left the last step and she sprinted down the short hallway. She careened into her room and slammed the door shut behind her.
She breathed heavily, more out of fear than exhaustion, as she locked the door and came to a rest against it. Bang! The door shook violently under her back. Mara jumped forward as if propelled by the shaking of the door.
“Open up!” Joe yelled through the door as he pummeled the hard wooden panel. It shook and creaked, but stood strong.
Facing the door, Mara realized her mistake. What am I doing? Why did I come here? I’m trapped!
Panic began to set in as she tried to decide what to do next. She was certain the door would not hold for much longer under such a constant barrage. It was strong, but it wasn’t built for the task. She scanned the room for anything that could be used to keep the deviant at bay, that might give her a chance. Her eyes found the row of stiletto heels at the edge of her bed, then her vanity, makeup and co—
“Ah!” She let out a shrill scream as the door jolted with a loud bang, louder than before. It shimmied. “No.”
She returned her attention to looking for some hope, some object that could make her something better than defenseless. Mara stepped up to her vanity and picked up a comb with a long pointed handle and examined the edge as Joe continued to hammer the door.
“Open up, bitch! I’m coming in one way or another,” he called after her. She could hear the irritation in his voice, the pent up rage, but it only motivated her to do something. She wasn't stopping, not now.
Mara grimaced but put down the comb. It was useless. Useless. Maybe more than the comb was useless, maybe it was useless to try to defend herself. But it didn’t matter, she wouldn’t just go down without a fight, not after all that she had witnessed tonight, after all she'd been through.
To Watch You Bleed Page 20
