Son of the Enemy

by Ana Barrons

  He ran a hand over her breasts and another whimper escaped her. “You know.” He sounded angry now. “You let him tie you up and touch you here—” He squeezed her breast and then, to her horror, he ran his hand between her legs. “And here. You let him put his face here. I saw him. You were naked, and he had his face in your cunt.”

  Spots danced before Hannah’s eyes. “You watched,” she rasped, her mouth completely dry, her terror draining the blood from her. She was cold, so cold.

  One hand came to her throat. “The pain was horrible, Belle. It squeezed my chest so hard I felt like I was dying.” He pressed down on her windpipe, making it hard to breathe.

  He’s going to kill me. I don’t want to die like this.

  “Forced…me…” she tried to say, but it came out strangled. “Please.”

  He let up on the pressure slightly. “He forced you? It didn’t look like that to me, Belle. It looked like you were enjoying it.”

  She rolled her head from side to side as far as she could, signaling that he was wrong. “Faking.” Then, to explain her absence, which he no doubt had noticed, she said, “Kidnapped…me.”

  He took his hand off her throat but rolled on top of her. Oh God. She coughed and whispered, “Water. Please.”

  “First, a kiss.” He ground his foul, wet lips into hers. She gagged. Philip went still on top of her, and she could feel the anger inside him.

  The moment he raised his head, she whispered, “Water first.”

  “Don’t you like my kisses, Belle?” he asked, running his hands down her sides. “Do you like Emerson’s better?”

  “No, no. Just need water…first.” She had no doubt, now, what he had in mind for her. How would she bear it without fighting and enraging him? He might kill her anyway, but if she could get him to keep her alive a little longer, maybe untie her, she might have a chance to get away—or to kill him before he killed her.

  “What’s the magic word?” His voice rose at the end, like somebody’s mother.

  “Please. Please, Philip.”

  “Very good,” he said, rolling off her. “I just happen to have some water right here.”

  It was utterly dark inside the little hut, which was more frightening than if she’d been able to see him. It was like being suspended in space with a demon from hell, and not able to see what was coming. She was terrified. At least he’d given her voice back, allowing her some options for getting out of this alive. A plastic cup touched her lips and she drank, grateful. Her mouth was dry and aching from having the handkerchief stuffed inside. She tried to sip more slowly, and when the cup was empty she asked for more.

  “More?” Philip asked, then lowered his voice. “We don’t want your bladder too full, Belle.”

  She shuddered at the implications of that. “Y…yes. Please.” Oh, God, she couldn’t let him touch her. Couldn’t let this monster inside her.

  She sipped slowly at the second cup of water, but Philip was impatient and pulled it away, causing it to dribble down her neck. “Let’s get you comfortable,” he said.

  “Could you…would you untie me, please?” she said, hearing the shakiness in her voice. “I’m so tense, tied up like this.” In fact, her muscles were beginning to feel strangely loose, almost relaxed. How could that be?

  “Not for long,” he said.

  A wave of drowsiness hit her, as though she’d taken a strong sedative. Oh shit. “The water,” she slurred, realizing too late the mistake she had made.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  John knew how to be quiet in the woods, but it sure would have helped if he could see a little something. The sky was overcast, and the only light came from Hannah’s house and the headlights of the police vehicles, but they were too far away to provide more than a dull glow by which to orient himself. Before long, even that light was gone. On the other hand, the cover of darkness made him less visible to Philip.

  The freak, as Ty had so aptly and frighteningly named him.

  John had left Bradshaw in the car about a quarter mile from Hannah’s place, and spent the next half hour following the river. If his gut was right, Philip was holding Hannah in the leaf hut Ty had mentioned. Also, Philip wouldn’t want to be too far away when John found his handiwork in Hannah’s bed. Had he been lurking in the trees, watching his expressions? The thought made him stop moving.

  Had Philip somehow witnessed John making love to Hannah—his Belle? Bradshaw had been right—there was a reason why Philip had lured him right into Hannah’s bed. He prayed Philip hadn’t decided to punish her for being unfaithful to him.

  Just as he started moving again John heard a sound that chilled his blood. It sounded like weeping. He hunkered down to listen, trying to determine what direction it was coming from. Seconds passed, the only sound the leaves rattling in the light breeze and the background skittering of forest creatures. There it was again! The river was narrow at this point, and low. It sounded as though the crying had come from the other side. It could be a setup—Philip could be trying to lure him out of the cover of trees into the open so he could shoot him, or ambush him. He could be faking the crying, knowing John would be unable to resist going to check it out.

  And he’d be right.

  John spotted a couple of large rocks jutting out of the water, and used them to make his way across the river, keeping low and moving quickly. Once he was on the other side, the crying stopped. Damn it. He ran diagonally into the trees, gun in hand, safety off. If it was Philip, he intended to immobilize him, but not kill him. Oh, no. Not unless it was a life-or-death situation for Ty or Hannah. That was one reason he didn’t want the locals down here—not only did he fear for Ty and Hannah, he was determined to bring Philip in alive. Sharon Duncan’s murderer would do his father a whole hell of a lot more good alive than dead.

  John wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it was several minutes before he heard another sound. This time the crying was more pained. Jesus Christ! John used every bit of stealth drummed into him at the academy to follow the sound without giving himself away. When he was very close, he recognized another sound—chattering teeth. And then mumbled words in a familiar voice. Ty!

  Still cautious in case Philip had staked out Ty and was nearby, he whispered, “Ty, it’s John. Are you alone?” He could barely make out the boy’s head hanging forward. Had he heard John’s whisper? Tiptoeing closer, he realized that Ty was bound to a tree.

  That fucking bastard. “Ty?”

  The silhouette of Ty’s curly hair jerked up. “Huh?” He turned his head in both directions. “Who’s there?”

  John got down on the ground and crept closer. When he was only six feet away, he saw that the boy was naked and shivering in the cold night air. John had no choice. He stood and spoke in a low whisper. “It’s John. Don’t speak unless you’re alone.”

  “John?” The hope in the boy’s voice broke John’s heart. “Is it…is it…?”

  John stepped forward, holstering the gun Bradshaw had returned to him and reaching for a pocketknife he hadn’t returned. “I’m going to untie you, pal,” he said. He felt around for knots, finding them at the back of the tree. “You okay?”

  “Blee…bleeding,” Ty whispered.

  “Where?”

  “He cut me.”

  John’s blood pressure hit the roof, but he couldn’t show Ty his anger. “It’s going to be okay, Ty. I’m here now and I’ll stop the bleeding.” The knots were taking him longer than he liked, and he kicked himself for forgetting to get the pocketknife back. Finally he got the boy’s hands and torso free, and to his horror, Ty folded like a puppet. He reached around and held him up with one shoulder and arm while he kept working the knots binding his legs. Damn it, the kid’s skin was sticky with his own blood. “It’ll be okay, just hang in there.”

  “Cold,” Ty said.

  The knots came loose, and Ty collapsed into John’s arms. The first thing he did was remove his leather jacket and stuff Ty into it, then zip up the front. Next he remov
ed his jeans and stuffed Ty into those as well, then his socks. Dressed only in shoes, boxers, a cotton turtleneck and a wool shirt, he laid the boy on the ground and unzipped the jacket again. Philip had tied him to a tree, slashed him across the chest, not deep enough for him to bleed to death, but enough to frighten and weaken him so he couldn’t call for help. If no one had found him, he would ultimately have died of hypothermia, dehydration or starvation. Or worse. There were other predators in the woods besides Philip—the four-legged kind.

  John removed the wool shirt, took off his turtleneck and pressed it hard to the wound, then wrapped the wool shirt around Ty’s slim chest and used the sleeves to tie it on. He zipped the jacket and pulled Ty onto his lap. The boy didn’t resist when John’s arms came around him. He turned his head into John’s shirt and began to sob.

  “You’re going to be okay,” John said, cradling him, knowing how cathartic this had to be for Ty. “I bet you were scared to death for a while there. I know I would have been.” Ty nodded against his chest. “But your dad and I wouldn’t have stopped looking until we found you.”

  Ty raised his head. “My dad? Is he here?”

  “I wouldn’t let him come down into the woods with me. Just in case Philip was here. He’s waiting nearby, in his car, ready to come if I call him.”

  “I tried. I tried to tell him.”

  “Yeah, he’s real sorry about that,” John said, not knowing whether it was lie. “This has really shaken him up.”

  “Did you find Hannah?”

  “No, do you know where she is?”

  “Philip stashed her at the school, and then—oh, fuck, I’m gonna puke.” John moved him into position and held on to him until he was done.

  “Can you stand?” He helped Ty to his feet.

  The kid was wobbly but didn’t collapse. “Did you check the school for Hannah?”

  “Yes, but she’s not there now. I was thinking he might bring her to the leaf hut you mentioned in your message.”

  “Yeah, he’d do something like that.”

  “Can you tell me how to get to it?”

  Ty shook his head. “You’d never find it.”

  John’s heart sank, but he was not about to give up now. He would never give up on finding Hannah, even if it killed him. “Can you get me there if I carry you on my back?”

  Ty looked around the dark woods, trying to orient himself, then said. “I think so, but I weigh like a hundred and thirty pounds.”

  John turned his back to him and bent over. “Hop on.”

  Philip gazed at Belle’s sleeping form. She was so beautiful, even after all this time. Well, he’d always held to the philosophy that true love was timeless. Love and beauty. He had allowed himself one candle so he could see her without alerting anyone to their presence. Not that anyone who knew about this place was in a position to find them. He chuckled to himself. Christian didn’t remember anything about that day, including him. And Ty, well… He’d tried to be Ty’s friend. The boy was so clearly in need of a responsible role model. But he’d insisted on taunting him, calling him names, insulting him and smart-mouthing him at every turn. But the final insult was invading Philip’s personal sanctuary.

  “Big mistake, Ty,” Philip said, smiling. “Natural consequences.”

  His mother had been right about some things. Every time she beat him or humiliated him or made him do those naughty things to her, she explained it was natural consequences for his badness. Each time he had tried harder to be good—keeping his room cleaner, getting top grades in school, especially in English class, not touching himself—well, that was particularly hard, and he was weak. But no matter what he did, it was never quite good enough.

  Badness shows in a person’s face, she’d told him. That’s why you look like that, Philip. If you were a good boy, you would be handsome and popular. What girl would want you?

  Then he had found Belle.

  Philip reached over and stroked her soft, lovely cheek. “It was love at first sight,” he whispered. “I wrote my play for you, my love, and you came to me.” He rubbed at the tightening in his chest, remembering how his mother had reacted to the play, her criticism, her scorn.

  Do you honestly believe it happens that way, Philip? Like Beauty and the Beast? The audience will be laughing at you. The play will be a disaster, and I will be so embarrassed.

  And so, she had forbidden Philip to be involved in the rehearsals and had locked him in the basement for two nights and a day while his play was performed. If he hadn’t broken the window and climbed out—cutting himself badly in the process—and run to the school, he would never have seen Belle come to life on that stage. He had lurked backstage, afraid to let anyone see him as he was, bleeding and sweaty and out of breath. Before he slipped out, he managed to pick up a handful of playbills with his name on it as the author, and the name of the girl who had transformed into his beloved before God and all the world.

  Sharon Lavoie.

  The pain began in his chest and radiated into his head and groin.

  His mother screaming at him, beating him with a long leather belt. All that blood, soaking into the carpet, her long brown hair matted and sticky. The police, seeing Philip bloodied, and the broken window in the basement, believing his story about a madman who came in and attacked him with a glass shard, and then slashed Edna Krantz’s throat while she lay sleeping.

  Natural consequences, you mean old bitch!

  He squeezed the sides of his head, certain it was going to explode.

  Spots of red on white carpet… I’m not Belle…not Belle…not Belle…

  “Belle!” he cried, reaching out and shaking the lifeless body. She didn’t answer, didn’t move. He tugged at her hair.

  Long brown hair, matted and sticky.

  “I only meant for you to sleep. Wake up. Wake up, Belle!”

  “Holy shit!” Ty said in a loud whisper.

  John had already stopped, his heart pounding. He’d heard it as clear as day. Wake up, Belle! He started to run, but Ty was slowing him down. “I’ve got to put you down,” he said, and unwrapped the boy’s arms from around his neck. His legs automatically lowered to catch him. “I’m sorry, but—”

  “You’re almost there,” Ty said. “Just go!”

  John took off running, following the sound of Philip’s keening, gun in hand.

  Please, God, don’t let her be dead.

  Two minutes later he spotted the old trunk and the layers of pine boughs that covered the leaf hut about twenty yards away. Dead leaves piled on top disguised it well, and he might have tripped over it if not for Ty’s directions and Philip’s voice guiding him.

  If you hurt her, you’re a dead man.

  Ty had told him there were two openings, a large one for entering and leaving and a smaller one to vent smoke. Still trying to approach quietly, he circled the hut, debating whether to simply drop down inside or call Philip out—or lure him out by creating a disturbance Philip would have to react to. Every scenario he came up with involved risk to Hannah.

  Closing in on ten yards, a tiny flame suddenly appeared above the hut, then a head, and then shoulders, a torso. Philip was climbing out, a flaming stick or candle in his hand. John was upwind and couldn’t smell the smoke to see if it was wood or paraffin burning. He quickly squatted low to the ground, hoping Philip couldn’t see him in the small clearing on one side of the hut. It was too late to make it back into the trees, and besides, he needed to get inside the hut. He had to get Hannah out.

  Philip was kneeling at the edge of the opening saying something in a low voice. John strained to hear. He could take Philip down right now, without killing him, with one shot to the shoulder. But there was the matter of the flame, and the certainty that Hannah was inside the hut. Once again, he sent up a silent prayer that she was still alive. Then he noticed Philip reaching behind him for something. A bag of some sort. With the bag in his arms, Philip dropped to the ground on the other side of the hut and dumped the contents. What the hell w
as it? Logs?

  Panic gripped John as he realized what Philip was doing. “It’s over, Philip,” he called out, staying low to the ground but moving slowly around the hut toward his nemesis. His enemy. This had become a war, and John was going to win. He only hoped Hannah would be around to celebrate the victory.

  His pronouncement was greeted with silence.

  “I’ve got a gun and I’m prepared to use it,” he said. “Just step away from the hut with your hands in the air and you won’t get hurt.”

  “Is that you, Emerson?” Philip’s voice was high and thin.

  “It’s the FBI, Philip. You can come peacefully or—” Suddenly smoke curled up from Philip’s side of the hut. John had no choice but to rush him. But Philip had anticipated that.

  The blow hit him solidly on the left side of the head, right where Little Italy had hit him with the gun earlier, and he fell to his knees. He fired a shot into the air, hoping someone would hear it and come running. The next blow knocked the gun right out of his hand. Flames licked up the side of the hut as Philip launched himself at John, knocking him backwards.

  “She’ll die in there!” John half-shouted half-grunted it as he struggled to push Philip off him. The man was remarkably strong, and probably as angry as John was. In his peripheral vision, sparks twinkled in the darkness. He had to win this match and get Hannah out of the hut before it caught fire. Maybe he could appeal to Philip’s obsession with her. “We’ve got to save her.”

  “Too late.”

  A flash of silver. Philip had a knife and was poised to bring it down on his chest. John blocked the blow and rolled. The blade thumped as it pierced the ground just beside his head. Before Philip could grab it again, John’s foot connected with his ribs and knocked him backwards, then he rolled up and flung himself on top of Philip, pinning him.

  “What do you mean too late!” he shouted in Philip’s face. He could feel the heat of the flames behind him. “What the fuck did you do to her?”