by David Kearns
Chapter Twenty Two
Emily and I were holding hands at the kitchen table when Eric came into the house. We’d been sitting silently, just listening to the noises coming from the hall closet as Peter shifted his weight in his chair. Emily had her gun in her lap and had been flipping the safety on and off obsessively for the last half hour. Click. Click. Click. I’d turned off Peter’s phone and had placed it on the kitchen counter to give to Eric. The darkness outside matched my somber mental state.
Eric walked down the hallway into the kitchen. He was wearing a dark pair of coveralls and black tactical boots with rubber soles. It was late, and he looked like he needed a shave.
“Emily,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said.
He nodded.
“Where is he?” Eric asked.
“Hall utility closet,” I said.
He looked at me. “You ready?” he said.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
I stood from the table, picked up Peter’s phone from the countertop, and handed it to Eric. “This is his phone.” Eric checked to make sure that the phone was turned off before he slipped it into a pocket. Then he cocked his head towards the hallway.
“We’re going to have to bring him through the kitchen, Emily,” I said. “Eric’s got the van on the side of the house, and we’re taking him through the back yard.”
She stood up from the table and went over to stand by the refrigerator.
“Do what you gotta do,” she said.
I followed Eric out of the kitchen, and we went down the hall to the utility closet.
Eric slid a black wand about eight inches long from a pocket in his coveralls. I heard a click and then the high pitched whine of a capacitor charging. Eric nodded his head at me. I turned the doorknob and pulled the door open.
Peter’s head started to come up off his chest, and Eric stepped forward and pressed the stick against Peter’s neck. Eric kept pressure on the tip of the stick while Peter’s body jerked against the ropes that tied him to the chair. The muscles in his arms and legs tightened against the ropes and the duct tape, and his face seemed locked in a rictus of pain. A few seconds later Eric pulled the stick off of Peter’s neck, and Peter’s head slumped to his chest.
The chloroform rag was on the floor of the utility closet. I picked it up and wrapped it around Peter’s face. I tightened the knot on the rag to secure it in place.
Eric and I cut off the ropes and duct tape that bound Peter to the chair. Eric lifted him to a standing position, I pulled his pants on, and we each took an arm.
Emily was standing by the stove when we entered the kitchen.
“I need you to open the back door,” Eric said.
“What are you going to do with him?” Emily said.
“Relocate him,” I said.
“I’ve got something I want say to him first,” she said.
“Okay,” Eric said. He peeled the tape off of one of Peter’s ears.
“Can he hear me?” she said.
“He can hear you,” Eric said. “He just can’t do anything about it at the moment.”
She leaned in close to Peter’s uncovered ear and whispered “I hope you rot in hell.”
