Hunt the Dawn

by Abbie Roads

  Parents will be referred to the Parental Coping Skills Class.

  Provisional Diagnosis: Psychotic Disorder Not Otherwise Specified.

  Prognosis: Guarded to Poor.

  All the anger inside her faded to shocked curiosity.

  Her legs folded beneath her, and she sat on the floor in the middle of the papers. Papers about his life. His terrible life.

  He’d only been a little boy. A sweet, innocent child.

  She rummaged through the documents. Page after page of admissions. All for the same problem. She wasn’t educated, but it seemed like the doctors pumped him full of enough drugs to sedate him, then sent him home. At six years old, he’d been medicated and sedated.

  A pink carbon-copy page—dated years later—grabbed her attention.

  Incident Report

  11/3/96, 7:15 p.m. When I heard screaming, I ran into the common room. Lathaniel Montgomery was on the floor. Justin Slider was sitting on his shoulders, jamming pencils into Lathaniel’s ears, screaming that he was killing the demon living inside Lathaniel’s brain. Justin was restrained, placed in isolation, and administered a sedative. The emergency code was called. Lathaniel was transported to the emergency room.

  F. Anderson

  Lathan had said he’d been attacked, but she’d never imagined something like this. He was so strong and proud that the thought of him being a victim just didn’t fit with what she knew of him.

  She flipped through the rest of the papers.

  Until he turned eighteen, he’d been admitted to Children’s Hospital at least every few months, sometimes for months at a time.

  She grabbed the next folder. Two Vallies Mental Health Center. She leafed through the pages. More of the same. Admission after admission. Drug after drug.

  Date: 7/16/03

  Name: Lathaniel Montgomery

  Interventions: Patient has not responded to medications. ECT treatments will be scheduled.

  Dr. Despare

  Evanee’s mind flashed back to high school psychology class, to Mrs. Roman showing them the video clip of Jack Nicholson’s character being given shock treatments in One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

  Date: 7/18/03

  Name: Lathaniel Montgomery

  Interventions: Patient was returned to his room and is resting after his first treatment. A course of twenty treatments will be administered.

  Dr. Despare

  Guilt and shame and nausea roiled in Evanee’s belly for how she’d treated him.

  Date: 7/19/03

  Name: Lathaniel Montgomery

  Interventions: Gill Garrison, who has Lathaniel’s power of attorney, removed patient from the facility against medical advice.

  Dr. Despare

  What was your intention? she had asked him when she discovered he’d been hiding his hearing problem.

  For you to know me first. To see that I am normal.

  Those words took on a deeper meaning. They were about a man who’d experienced a shitty childhood, who’d survived pencils jammed in his ears, who’d endured shock treatments, and felt that no one would accept him and his genetic anomaly.

  And she’d rejected him—just like he’d expected. All because he knew her deepest shame and darkest moments. Moments she wanted to keep hidden away, because if anyone knew, they’d look at her differently, treat her differently—the exact reasons Lathan kept his own secrets.

  She was a total and complete hypocrite. She hated hypocrites. Hated herself for how she’d reacted when he’d handled her issues with grace and treated her with dignity.

  Evanee left the papers scattered over the bedroom floor and ran from the room. Not one more moment could pass without her apologizing, without her telling him she loved him—genetically weird abilities and all.

  When she was halfway down the stairs, Little Man started barking. The sound wasn’t the woofing and chuffing of him playing outside; it was angry and menacing. Fear licked the back of her neck.

  Pguull!

  A gunshot.

  A canine scream of pain.

  Silence.

  A terrifying rush of certainty iced her skin. She knew, she just knew, Junior was outside—and he wasn’t target shooting. He was here to kill Lathan.

  “Lathan!” She yelled his name with all the force inside her at the same time she hit the bottom step.

  He was in the kitchen, hunched over the sink, head down, dragging in ragged breaths of torment.

  He looked up. His chiseled features were ravaged with agony that went beyond body and mind, but spoke without words of how she had wounded his spirit. Guilt wanted to gut her, but that would have to wait.

  “Lathan! Run!” She screamed so loud her throat burned.

  The back door exploded inward. Splintered shards of wood scattered across the kitchen. Gun first, Junior stormed inside.

  Evanee ran toward Lathan, but time held her in its elusive grip, slowing her progress, while speeding up everything around her.

  She watched, utterly helpless, as Junior aimed the gun at Lathan. Pulled the trigger.

  The sound was an earthquake. It shook her knees, rattled her body, and knocked the breath from her lungs.

  Lathan jerked, but remained on his feet.

  Impossible hope flooded her mind. Maybe Junior had missed. Maybe he’d fired a warning shot, not a kill shot.

  Time finally released her. She skidded to a stop in from of Lathan, waving her arms wildly at Junior like he was a basketball champ and she was blocking him from scoring the game-winning point. “Stop. You want me. I’ll go with you. Just leave him alone.”

  Junior’s face was a nightmare. The melding of handsome features into the too-harsh lines of evil.

  Lathan settled his hand on her shoulder, and reassurance flooded through her body, chasing away the panic. But then his hand slid off, banishing the comfort. She turned. Lathan went to his knees. Blood geysered from his chest. Splattered to the floor. Shock paralyzed her.

  Fear, anger, hurt were all absent from his eyes. What she saw was the gentle acceptance of someone who loved her. She wasn’t sure she deserved that kind of love—especially after how she’d treated him.

  He collapsed.

  “Lathan! No. You can’t die. Not now. Not now!” Something immense cracked inside her. If it broke open, she’d die. She went down next to him.

  As long as the light shines in one of you, the other will live. The story of Fearless and Bear. An absurd calm settled over her. She only had to heal him. As long as the light shines in one of you, the other will live. And her light was a fucking beacon.

  She reached for him.

  Junior grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back, nearly ripping the hair off her head and her head off her shoulders. She scrabbled to get leverage, footing, something to ease the sensation of being scalped, but her feet and legs were slick with Lathan’s blood.

  “Don’t fight me. Don’t you fight me.” Junior yelled the words.

  She forced herself to stillness. The pressure on her head eased, then he let go of her. She rolled to her knees and launched herself at his legs, taking him down. The moment he hit the floor she was on top of him, wrestling him for the gun. He swung his gun hand up over his head, out of her reach, and smacked her with the other. The crack of his palm against her cheek startled her to a stop.

  “You hit me.” He’d molested her, raped her, restrained her, defended himself from her, but had never hit her. She stared at him and didn’t recognize what she saw. The monster inside him was more vast, more evil than she’d ever imagined.

  His gun arm swung. A second too late, she realized his intention. The gun in his fist smacked her in the temple.

  Pain exploded in her head. Everything blinked to black. It felt like just a moment, but when color returned, she realized too many things all at once.


  She was naked. Junior was on top of her. Her breast ached with a deep, throbbing burn that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

  “I’ve been too lenient. Dad kept telling me, but Mom said you’d come around, that you needed time.”

  Something wasn’t right with her body. Her limbs felt too thick and too heavy and too slow.

  “No more. Today you’re getting the punishment you deserve. Look what you did.” He grabbed her face, forced her head to the side to look at Lathan’s body. He was so still. He wasn’t breathing. His eyes open, but no light in them. And blood. Blood everywhere.

  “You killed him. You did. With your actions.” Junior’s hands squeezed her face.

  Pressure built inside her head. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but she couldn’t control the whimper of pain that escaped her lips.

  “You’re selfish. You always have been. You act all self-righteously angry with me, but have you ever once thought about how badly you’ve hurt me?”

  “What are you talking about?” Her voice was slurred and tired sounding.

  “I had to live with knowing you were fucking Matt Stone. I had to live with knowing you were fucking this guy. Do you know what that does to a man? To know his woman is fucking everyone but him? It eats him up inside. It devours his heart.”

  “I was never your woman.”

  “Yes, you are.” Junior slammed her head against the floor, the force of it so powerful she couldn’t even tell what part of her hit. Her entire head was a writhing mass of pain. Her mouth tasted like hot garbage. Her body stopped working. Her eyes rolled, unable to lock on any one thing.

  Something hot and wet misted over her face, but she couldn’t see anything in her swinging vision. Couldn’t find the strength to reach up and wipe whatever it was off her face.

  Gurgling sounds. Choking.

  Junior moved off her.

  Muffled thumping.

  Silence and darkness slid over her.

  Chapter 14

  Night brought harmony to the barren woods. A breeze wrestled with the dead leaves, filling the air with soft sighs. Naked branches clacked together, the sound hollow and melodic like wind chimes made of human bone.

  Even though James had been watching Lathaniel’s home for seventeen hours, inquisitiveness vibrated in his bones, keeping him wide-eyed awake. Curiosity had fought a brief but violent battle with his prudence. Curiosity won. Now he was going in. Going to find out what happened after the last gunshot.

  He covered every bit of his body with the clean-room suit, palmed his Ruger—just in case—and moved through the forest toward Lathaniel’s house.

  The massive dog was still alive. It lay on the ground, heaving great bellowing breaths as its body fought against the bullet lodged in its chest. The animal’s black eyes watched James walk up the porch steps, but it could do nothing else to defend the homestead.

  The back door stood wide open—a portal to the great unknown. Kitchen lights shone down, displaying the scene before him as if it were on a stage.

  James’s first impression was of Death’s invisible presence.

  Death’s immensity filled the room. It changed the air, made it empty and hard to fulfill his body’s need for oxygen, and transformed sound into muted shadows.

  James never feared Death.

  Death was his creation, but here in this home, Death became his friend and ally, and blood was the only color that existed.

  The crimson stain was everywhere, on everything and everyone. It was inspiring. Beautiful. Would’ve been an enchanting image to record on film.

  Three bodies. Two male—one of which was Lathaniel Montgomery. One female. Lathaniel’s woman.

  Death sidled up to James, breathed into his ear, telling him exactly what had happened between the two men. He had no reason to question Death’s assessment. Death never lied. It was part of their agreement; James fed Death, and Death was loyal to him.

  Death didn’t speak of the woman. She was alive and of no consequence to Death. But she captivated James.

  Her naked torso wore blood like body paint. Despite the coating, James could see a jagged ring of tooth marks marring her left breast. A human animal had masticated her. A prelude to rape—foreplay for the perpetrator. The wound itself wasn’t that remarkable. He’d seen that kind of injury on no fewer than a dozen women during his career. He had granted Subject 57 that experience.

  He could still remember the tremendous pressure it took to bite through Subject 57’s breasts. Human teeth weren’t designed for biting and chewing raw flesh.

  The reason James had been watching Lathaniel—the entire reason—was to figure out how a lowly special skills consultant obtained hair and a tooth from a victim not yet discovered by the authorities. And the eye. He’d somehow found the eye. There was no conceivable explanation. James’s answers had vanished along with Lathaniel’s life.

  An idea slid out of James’s mind, squirming and wriggling like a freshly birthed babe: Take the woman. She and Lathaniel were obviously lovers; he could get answers from her.

  A thrill of electric energy raced up the back of his neck. This was what had been missing from his kills. Spontaneity. But spontaneity led to mistakes. Spontaneity was just another word for losing control. Control was more than his religion; it was his Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

  So, take control of this scene. Wouldn’t be hard to do. With Lathaniel dead, no one would ever suspect the Strategist.

  Another idea—a twin to the first one—birthed: Set the scene. Arrange the evidence to indicate she killed the two men and then fled. While the local law enforcement officers searched for her, she’d be imprisoned in his bunker.

  * * *

  She hadn’t regained consciousness. That worried James. And worry wasn’t a skill he cultivated. He’d planned every minute detail of every experiment he’d ever conducted so he wouldn’t have to worry. But with this situation, nothing had been planned and everything was impulsive.

  He carried her across the bunker to the small bathroom. The space looked more like a studio apartment—one giant room that housed his computer station, his living area, the kitchenette, and the bathroom—than an impenetrable fortress designed to keep him safe in the worst of worse-case scenarios.

  With a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed, he settled her in the bathtub and turned on the tap, adjusting the water until it reached the perfect temperature. The blood covering her from root to tip had dried, mottling her in shades of crimson and rust. She looked like the heroine from a B-rated horror flick, and yet, he found the gore and her nakedness resplendent. He wanted to leave her that way, but the biological material was already decomposing. In a few hours, the stench would be unbearable.

  Crimson streamers began trailing off her wet skin, coloring the water. He wet a washrag and wiped the blood from her face. With stroke after stroke of wet rag to bloody face, her skin was revealed.

  A scar damaged one side of her mouth, pulling it up unnaturally. Without it, her face would’ve been one of the few examples of perfect symmetry—a biological indicator of beauty. An ugly stain of deepening red radiated out from her temple, engulfing her eye, her cheek, and part of her forehead. In a day or so, the bruise would deepen and darken and deform her face with its swelling. She probably had a concussion.

  He removed the splint from her hand and examined her fingers. No swelling, no bruising. Looked normal.

  The bathwater had turned shark-attack red, but he continued to use the rag to wipe the blood from her body and rinsed it from her hair. He drained the tub, refilled it, and then repeated the process two more times before the water remained clear. Only then did he soap up another cloth.

  He toiled over his cleaning of her. He ran the cloth over her chest, around her breasts—careful of the beautiful bite—over her stomach, down each leg, and between her toes. He watched her face as
he slid his cloth-covered hand between her legs and scrubbed her cleft.

  His penis engorged.

  He’d raped women. Men too. All in the name of research, but he hadn’t really enjoyed the process. He’d always needed Viagra during those times. With the level of planning required for each experiment, the act had turned mechanical. But this, cleaning her while she was unaware, was more stimulating than anything he’d felt in years. He let his fingers slip out of the washcloth, let them explore her by touch. He felt like a teenager. He wanted to masturbate with one hand while he caressed her with the other.

  So he did.

  When he finished, he cleaned himself with the same rag he’d used on her—a perfect symmetry. One he normally would’ve relished, but his neck cramped and his body felt tense and uncomfortable inside his skin—a sensation he hadn’t felt before. He paused to examine the feelings, to put a name to them. The answer that came to him was so unexpected he could barely acknowledge it.

  Guilt. He felt guilt for what he’d just done to her. But why? It was trivial. He’d done far worse during his experiments. Maybe that in itself was the answer. He wasn’t looking at her the same as he looked at his test subjects. He was looking at her like a human being.

  He drained the water from the bathtub—didn’t want her accidentally drowning like an unattended baby—and went to the bed, spreading a layer of clean towels on the mattress.

  He lifted her from the tub. Her skin was slick and warm, and he knew that one day he wanted to touch her while she was awake and aware and make her enjoy it. He settled her in the bed.

  Her muscles twitched, and her eyelids fluttered like dragonfly wings. He watched as her body slowly returned to consciousness. The moment her eyes fully opened, he began speaking. “Everything is all right. You’re safe here.”

  If he wanted to gain her trust, one of the tricks would be to offer information instead of withholding. Her gaze took longer than it should to shift and find him.

  “My name is James.” Shouldn’t have given her his real name. Too late now. “You’re injured. I’m fairly certain you have a concussion. And I need to bandage the wound on your—”