The Haunts of Cruelty
Page 1
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Epilogue
For the dark places of the earth are full of the haunts of cruelty.
Asaph, 586 BC
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by R.G. Ryan.
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Dream Chasers Media Group
Las Vegas, NV
ISBN: 9781543942958
Edited by Cheryl D. Gollner
Cover Design by Rob Weidenfeld for Vision Studios
Prologue
It was a few minutes before midnight, and all was quiet on the fog-shrouded streets of the sleepy Southern California seaside township. The rhythmic ebb and flow of the ocean waves raking the shoreline in their tireless, timeless assault added a hypnotic quality to the scene. The lonely cry of a gull pierced the stillness, its clarity standing in stark contrast to the muffled braying of a distant foghorn.
In the park across the street from an upscale condominium complex, a homeless man drained the last of a devilish potion before falling once more into the bony arms of alcoholic oblivion.
Beyond the park, on the bluff overlooking the main beach, a single car was parked, its two teenaged occupants locked in passionate embrace.
Up the street, at Bridgett’s Petite Bistro, the night crew cleaned and helped themselves to whatever food they calculated would go unnoticed when the owners returned at 4:00 a.m.
It was just another night in paradise.
Two figures, clad all in black, crouched behind a large hedge next to the entrance to the condominium complex’s underground parking garage.
“I’m cold,” the woman said through clenched, chattering teeth.
The man shot her a withering look, grabbing her painfully around the elbow.
“If you don’t stop whining, I swear…”
He abruptly stopped speaking as a diehard skateboarder appeared briefly out of the fog like a ghostly apparition, cutting and shredding an imaginary wave, only to be absorbed once more into the murky vapor with no evidence of his passing save the sound of wheels against uneven pavement.
The man continued, “Look, dimwit, I’ve worked too long and hard on this plan for you to screw it up! Just sit there and be quiet.” He gave her arm an extra squeeze before adding, “Do you think you can do that?”
The woman looked at him and nodded in agreement, fear etched on her once pretty face. What else could she do but agree. It was how she had come to be here in the first place. When she thought of what they were about to do, it made her want to run as fast as she could in any direction as long as it was away from this insanity. But she knew she wouldn’t, for wherever she ran, he would track her down.
And when he found her…he would kill her.
Letting go of her arm, the man turned his gaze toward the parking area as he thought through each step of what had to happen over the next fifteen minutes. To think he would possess his treasure once again caused his already elevated heart rate to accelerate.
Soon, now…very soon.
His attention was diverted as a classic British sports car entered the parking area and slowly drove toward the underground parking garage.
“Okay,” said the man. “Get ready to move.”
The gate swung open and the car drove slowly past their position, through the entrance and then turned a corner. As soon as it was out of sight, they quickly moved from their hiding place and rushed in after it before the gate could completely close.
Throwing an arm across the woman’s chest blocking her progress, the man peered around the corner to where the car was pulling into a designated parking place.
He pointed toward a large SUV parked right beside the elevator that would offer concealment while at the same time providing a clear view of the sports car’s occupant.
“Over there,” the man whispered, and the two of them headed toward the SUV as quickly as stealth would allow. Once there, they crouched down and waited for their prey to approach.
After idling for a moment, the car’s lights blinked out, the engine shut off, and a lone female figure emerged. Dressed in well-worn workout attire, she walked unhurriedly, confidently through the parking garage, passing within just a few feet of the hidden danger.
He had forgotten how stunning she was—not perfect, but stunning nonetheless. Dozens of images flashed randomly through his mind as he watched her walk—images of a time before when she had been his alone. It had all been so perfect until he had come along and ruined everything. Now, it was time for a reckoning. She would taste of his vengeance and then…what? What would happen afterwards? He was forced to admit that as elaborate as his plans for her had been, that part was, as yet, a bit foggy. But as far as her precious uncle was concerned, he would be destroyed in the most painful manner he could devise.
But that would come later, much later. For now, there was work to be done and he was on a tight schedule.
He and his partner emerged from hiding and approached their victim like Robert Frost’s fog—on “little cat feet.” Two steps from the safety of the elevator, she paused, holding her purse up in the dim light and fumbling for the keys. Before she could react, the man pounced, clamping a chloroform soaked rag over her nose and mouth.
It didn’t turn out to be anywhere near the deterrent he had imagined. Within the first two seconds she had rammed her right elbow into his ribcage and driven her heel into his right kneecap nearly taking him down. But, anesthesia will eventually conquer even the fiercest fighter and with a final mighty convulsion, she collapsed in his arms.
His accomplic
e came out of hiding. And with the woman’s limp form wedged between them, the three stood in an awkward embrace—one unwitting, one unwilling and the other unholy.
Chapter One
4:00 a.m. and sleepless.
The dream again.
That makes three times in two months!
And the dreams aren’t good! In fact, if you want to know the truth, they’re all pretty terrifying.
Night.
Always night.
In the pale light of a half-moon I can see a raggedly clad figure struggling up the face of a gigantic sand dune. A fierce, howling wind accompanies the climb, turning the sand into choking clouds that obscure all points of reference.
Once reaching the crest, the solitary wayfarer pauses—bent over at the waist, battered by the wind and breathing heavily while warily eyeing the steep decline ahead.
A moment’s hesitation, and then a single step plunges the victim headlong down the slope, rolling like a rag doll to the bottom of the dune. Sand clings to the sweat of this unknown wanderer who stops to catch a breath before casting a weary glance up the slope, turning and then starting up another impossible climb in a never-ending sequence of dunes.
Like a section of film running in a loop the scene plays repeatedly—climbing, falling, rising to plod onward. One dune after another—every detail the same. A bone-weary gait carries the traveler onward. The pace never changes as each successive obstacle is surmounted. Androgynous and yet strangely familiar in form, timeworn and weary, the proud vagabond has won my heart as I observe the dreamscape with a growing dread.
“Who are you and what drives your flight?” I ask each time at some point.
Abruptly a new scene is projected. As the figure struggles to climb a particularly steep dune, the point of view pans back cinematically revealing that just over the crest a figure lies in wait. Dressed all in black, face obscured except for the eyes, waves of pure evil seem to emanate from this form. As the ragged, exhausted wanderer moves closer and closer to the summit, my agitation increases.
“Watch out! Turn back!” I scream, but the wind catches my words and carries them away as soon as they leave my mouth.
The dark figure seems to ready himself the way a lion readies to charge his chosen prey.
Suddenly, I am in the dream and running with all my might to intercept the unsuspecting wanderer. But my feet seem to be made of lead as each step is buried deeply into the face of the dune. Realizing that I will never make it in time, with every ounce of strength I possesses I try to shout a warning, only it is as if someone has sewn my lips shut. The only thing that emerges is an unintelligible grunting.
Now merely steps away from the evil that waits, the piteous vagabond stops, turns slowly and looks directly at me. Beckoning? Pleading? I cannot tell. A gust of wind frees the tightly wound scarf revealing a face illuminated in the moonlight.
Cassie.
And that’s the dream. Every single time, I awake with a cry of alarm and sit up in bed panting and drenched in sweat.
Like I said…terrifying! But, what does it mean? Having sensed for nearly my entire life that everything means something, it troubles my soul.
Greatly!
Shuffling into my bathroom, feeling every minute of my nearly forty-four years, I turn on the shower, and while waiting for it to warm up, brush my teeth and relieve myself in the toilette.
Yes, I said “toilette”, a device sold to me on the basis of its quiet flush.
Which brings up a point that skirts dangerously close to the realm of “pet peeves.” Given that the individual occupying the master bedroom suite in virtually any house in America is also the one who purchased the house, why in bloody hell does it take longer for the hot water to reach the master bathroom shower than in any room in the entire, damn house? This isn’t right! I’m telling you, it just isn’t right! Oh, I know. I could purchase one of those instant hot water things and have it installed, but then I wouldn’t have anything to complain about—or, “about which to complain” if you want to be grammatically correct.
The hot water finally, and blessedly arrives. Easing myself under the stinging spray I stand immobile, as if hoping the torrential flow will somehow wash away the toxic residue from my dream.
It doesn’t work.
It never works.
And so I carry the dread for another day.
I say out loud to the Deity in whom I no longer believe, and yet blame for nearly every ill that comes my way, “Hasn’t she suffered enough?”
“She” is in reference to Cassie, my niece, who came to be my ward at the age of seven following the death of my sister, Alicia, and her husband Ben in a horrific car wreck.
“Is there really more horror coming her way that she will have to endure? Is that what that dream is about? Your followers insist that you are a ‘good Father.’ Please tell me what goodness is to be had if that dream bears even the slightest resemblance to reality!”
I get no answer in return.
As usual!
Which brings to mind a line from a Paul Simon song that says, “God only knows; God makes His plans; The information’s unavailable to the mortal man.”
This pushes me toward one of two conclusions: First, that the atheists are right and there is, in fact, no one there. Or, secondly, that much like a wearied parent with a petulant child God simply waves me off with a muttered, “You wouldn’t understand even if I did tell you.”
I’m pretty sure it’s the latter.
Stepping out of the shower to towel off, I notice that it’s 4:40 a.m.
I was in there a long time!
Well, hell, it’s my water and I should be able to do with it as I see fit. And if I choose to have my water pour over my weary head, then who cares?
I know…I’m in a mood.
After wiping the mist from the mirror I stare at my reflection and find that I am still conflicted about my decision to grow a full beard. But, Gabi—that would be Gabriella Marcus, my girlfriend—likes it and I like Gabi. So it’ll probably work out okay.
At least having a beard cuts down on the cost of shaving products. And since I started buzzing my hair years ago, there really isn’t much more to my morning prep other than the application of deodorant and a bit of moisturizing lotion for the portion of my face not covered by the beard and a full slathering for the rest of my body.
Yes, I’m a guy and I use lotion. Lots of lotion.
It’s a Vegas thing.
If you don’t live here, I doubt that you will understand.
I turn to the left and then to the right examining my growing collection of scars—an “impressive” collection, according to one quite sarcastic medical professional. If you want to know the truth, I’m kind of over the whole getting punched, stabbed and shot at thing.
I don’t like pain.
Pain hurts and I’ve suffered far too much of it over the past year!
Besides, I promised Vanessa—my almost adopted daughter—that I wouldn’t be getting any more.
Scars, that is.
And I really hope I can make good on that promise.
My cell phone buzzed signaling an incoming text.
It was Gabi.
Hey…are you awake?
She knows that I have trouble sleeping. She does too. We had a pretty good laugh recently when we compared our text conversations and saw how many had been initiated prior to five a.m.
As a matter of fact…I am, I replied.
I might as well tell you that this woman has stolen my heart. It has been a long and painful process to arrive at the point where I can even say that. But, after seeing her regularly now for nearly three months, I find myself teetering on the brink of actually being in love. Oh, I think I probably am, but I’m just not quite ready to actually say the words.
It’ll happen.
Probably sooner rather than later.
Are you and Aaron going to the gym? She inquired.
We talked about it last night, but didn’t confirm a time.
We’re not your typical gym rats who follow a rigorous, marginally masochistic routine every single day. Aaron and I have a more casual approach wherein we basically do whatever seems to feel good in the moment. It’s called listening to your body. Today we will probably hit a “push” routine. But it’s nothing like traditional push routines. We don’t do any bench presses or military presses. We built the routine around parallel bar dips. Why? Well, have you ever looked at the physique on an Olympic gymnast?
I rest my case.
Will you have time for lunch with me when you’re through with the bro-fest? Gabi asked.
Let’s see…lunch with the prettiest woman in Las Vegas. Hmm. That’s a tough decision.
Of course. What are you hungry for?
Now, I have to tell you that this is a question that basically has no answer. While our relationship is still relatively new—and I am arguably still getting to know her—I have come upon one unarguable reality: Gabi will never tell you what she’s hungry for. Instead, she will sit back and field suggestions, swatting them down like a tennis pro stalking the net!
Oh, I don’t know. Suggest something.
And here we go.
J: Ok. How about Café Cabo?
G: We just ate there last week.
J: Right. Then, maybe go to that one Chinese place you liked?
G: We could, but I didn’t like it as well as the first time we went.
J: Huh! Well…how about that salad place over at The District?
G: What salad place?
J: You know, the one by the casino? I can never remember its name.
G: Greens Street?
J: That’s the one.
G: I’m not really hungry for salad.
J: Yeah, I’m getting that. What are you hungry for?
G: I thought you were going to suggest something.