He smiled at her.
The look she gave him said she was only mildly surprised at the sudden turn of events. That irked him.
“Who is this woman? Is this Melissa?” He spoke calmly and showed her the picture.
She stared at him for a moment before shifting her eyes to the photo. She studied the picture as if considering his question, and his excitement mounted. He peeled back the strip of duct tape he’d stuck to her mouth. “Tell me the truth, and I’ll let you go.”
She shifted her eyes to his. Her face was calm—resigned, even. “No, you won’t.”
“It’s okay, I won’t hurt her,” he said. This made her laugh—the sound saying, like you could. The rage, always simmering in his gut, started to bubble. The bouncy rhythm of Gene singing about the sun in his heart and being ready for love filled the space between them for a moment. He took a deep, cleansing breath, determined to stay calm.
“See this?” He showed her the knife he held. The folding blade was roughly the length of a child’s forearm and nearly as wide. It sported a double edge—one smooth and sharpened to a razor’s edge, the other serrated with teeth that looked like they were made to bite. His father had given it to him for his twelfth birthday, but despite its age and countless uses, it showed little wear. He took care of what was his.
“This is the knife I used on Melissa.” He leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “Did she tell you, Lucy? Did she tell you what I did to her with it? You know, a gentleman never kisses and tells but I have to tell you, it was … magical.” He pressed his lips to her cheek and she reared back, twisting her face out of reach. He grabbed her by her hair and yanked, pulling her back to him with a laugh. “She fought me in the beginning, and toward the end she just begged me to kill her, but between you and me”—he smiled and lowered his tone to a whisper—“I think she kinda liked it.”
Lucy started to cry. Tears coursed down her wrinkled face, dripping off her trembling chin, but they only seemed to strengthen her resolve. She looked away, terrified but still silent. A thumping scratch signaled the end of the record before the needle lifted and set itself down to repeat the song.
He decided to change tactics. He loosened his grip on her hair and smoothed his hand over her head before letting it fall to her cheek for a moment. Gently, he took her chin in his hand, lifted her face to his, and waited for her to look at him.
“Why did you call Michael O’Shea?” he said, and she looked surprised.
“I didn’t.”
“You’re lying.” It bothered him that she would be so bold. “Does he know where Melissa is?”
“You killed Melissa.” The words stuck in her throat, hitched on a sob.
“Stop lying,” he said loudly. His fingers dug into her face, deep enough to bruise, and she fought hard not to cry out. He let go, took a step back to steady himself. Losing control now would serve no purpose.
She was lying. She had to be. But doubt crept in, and the absolute certainty he’d felt only moments before began to waver. Could it be he was so desperate to have her back that he fooled himself into seeing things that weren’t there, into believing things that couldn’t possibly be true? He looked at the picture in his hand and instantly felt the connection. The woman in the picture was Melissa, he was sure of it. Somehow, some way, she’d come back to him.
“This is Melissa, I know it is.” He flashed Lucy the picture he held and grinned. “She’s mine. She belongs to me, and you’ve been hiding her from me all this time … you’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”
“No. Melissa’s gone. Been gone for years.” She turned her face away, dismissing him. He felt himself bend, his control threatening to break. He slipped the picture in his pocket and picked up his knife. He leaned in close, putting his face within inches of hers.
“You are a stubborn one, Miss Lucy …” He drew the blade down her cheek. Blood mingled with the tears, but she remained silent. “Where is she?” he said quietly, not at all surprised when Lucy refused to answer. “Okay … we’ll do things your way.” He straightened and returned to the counter to take a quick inventory of what he’d collected there. A hammer and nails. A roll of trash bags.
An extension cord. A dishtowel.
Whistling along with the music, he opened an upper cabinet and rifled its contents. He found a carton of salt, gave it a testing shake— nearly full. He added it to his collection. Not at all what he was used to, but he’d worked with less. He retrieved a mixing bowl from the sink and rinsed it out before filling it with hot water.
“You know, of all the things my daddy taught me, the value of hard work stuck with me the most,” he said to her over his shoulder. “‘Nothing worth having ever comes easy, boy.’ Every time he said it to me, I wanted to cut out his tongue. But he was right.” He chose the hammer and nails and showed her what he held. Cocked his head to the side and gave her a lopsided grin. “Last chance,” he sang and waggled the hammer at her.
She spat at him.
His smile widened. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
He carried it all to the table and set it out carefully, prolonging the pleasure he felt at the prospect of what lay ahead. Breaking them was always the best part.
He opened the carton of salt, poured it into the bowl of water. He shook out the last few grains and tossed her a wink over his shoulder. “Every bit counts,” he said before he dropped the dishtowel into the briny mix.
“You’re insane.” She said the words quietly, but he heard her and for a split second, hated her.
“There’s no cause for name calling, Miss Lucy.” His tone was light, but she shrank away from the look he gave her. “I tried doing this the easy way. What happens next … well, you got no one to blame but yourself.”
He picked up the trash bags and unrolled them, tearing them off one by one. He started whistling again, picking up the tune where Gene sang about September seeming as sunny as spring. The music buoyed his spirits, and he forgave her.
“It’s alright, Miss Lucy. I’m not mad, and I want to apologize ahead of time. This is gonna get messy,” he said. He laid the trash bags on the floor, overlapping them around and beneath her chair. When he finished, he picked up the roll of duct tape and ripped off a strip.
“I’m gonna go ahead and gag you again. As far as screaming is concerned, I’ve found a little goes a long way.” He slapped the tape over her mouth and gave her cheek an affectionate pinch.
She began to cry in earnest, though she tried hard to fight it. She breathed heavily, dragging air into her lungs through her nose, so fast and hard, each whistling intake flattened her nostrils. She sounded like a teakettle set to boil.
“You need to try and calm down, now. You keep breathing like that, you’re gonna pass out and miss all the fun.” He knelt down in front of her, pinning her left foot beneath his knee, and reached for the right. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she jerked her leg to the side, fighting to stay out of his grasp. He captured it easily—his fingers circled her bony ankle and pulled it back in place. He forced her foot flat on the floor and held it there, a nail pinched between his fingers.
He could feel her foot straining against his hand, but it was useless. “You prayin’, Miss Lucy? You beggin’ God to save you—deliver you from evil? Deliver you from me?” He lifted the hammer and tightened his grip on her foot. “I’ll tell you something else my daddy taught me. God helps those who help themselves,” he said and drove the nail home.
Shrieks ripped from her throat, got caught behind the strip of tape and collected there—building to a high-pitched hum he was sure only a dog could truly appreciate. He grabbed another nail and forced her other foot flat.
“Where is she?” He raised the hammer, held it high over his head and looked up at her. She writhed and moaned in pain but shook her head, still refusing to tell him what he wanted to know. He shrugged and brought the hammer down on the second nail.
One high-pitched hum bled into the next.
Without pause, he picked up
his knife, dragged it up her calf, then down. First one and then the other. Back and forth until her legs were covered in dozens of thin, shallow cuts.
He took the towel out of the bowl and bathed her cuts in the salty water. Salt seeped into the wounds, and she began to jerk in her chair. He repeated the process. First the knife and then the towel, each time dipping into the saltwater before applying it to her legs—until dozens of cuts became hundreds. They overlapped, creating an intricate pattern resembling the scales on a fish. Using the tip of his knife, he lifted the edge of one of these scales and pulled, peeling a thin layer of skin from her leg. First one … and then another and another until blood streaked her calves and puddled at her feet. Occasionally, he bathed her wounds in the salty water while she hummed and convulsed with pain. She jerked at her feet, tried to escape the relentless peeling, but it was useless. The nails in her feet trapped them in place.
He gave the towel a final squeeze over her feet, brine pooled around the head of the nails for a moment before sinking in. Now the hums came in short bursts. She sounded like a siren, wailing in the distance.
He sat back on his haunches and swiped a forearm over his brow and waited. After a while, her muffled screams tapered off into a series of snuffling whimpers, sounding more animal than human. He reached for her face, but she jerked her head away.
“Be still now, I’m just gonna take the tape off so we can chat.” His hand darted out and snagged a corner, ripping the tape off and some skin along with it. Blood peppered her bottom lip and she cried out from the sting of it.
“I’ll tell you, Miss Lucy, this sure makes for thirsty work. Got any lemonade?” He stood and crossed the room—hammer in hand—to open the refrigerator. Disappointed, he pulled out a pitcher of iced tea. It’d have to do. He carried it to the counter and retrieved a glass from the dish drainer. The cake dome set in the corner caught his eye. “Mind if I cut myself a piece of cake to go along with it?”
“… choke on it.”
“Now, that ain’t Christian-like, Miss Lucy.” He splayed a hand across his chest and shook his head, but truthfully he found her rebellious attitude amusing. He used his knife to cut the cake. Her blood leached into the yellow of it, creating an orange ring around the outside edges. He liked the way it looked. Like one of those bright crayon drawings of the sun kids did in elementary school. He set it on the plate she’d laid out on the tray along with the coffee and grabbed a fork.
“I’m gonna find her, one way or another. I did it once, I can do it again.” He poured tea into the glass and took a long drink. It wasn’t lemonade, but it was sweet, just the way he like it. “This can all end now, Miss Lucy. I’ll kill you quick, cross my heart. All you gotta do is tell me where she is.” He took a bite of cake and smiled. It even tasted like sunshine.
“Go to hell,” she said. Her voice sounded strange, garbled from the pain. He nodded his head and took another drink.
“Figured as much. Obviously, Melissa got her sass from you. She sure didn’t get it from her mama.” He smiled at her when she looked at him. The mention of her daughter surprised her. “Kelly was all talk. She acted tough but folded like a bad poker player the very first time I cut her.” Lucy’s eyes, glassy with pain, jerked to his face. He lowered his tone to an exaggerated whisper. “I did her just like I did Melissa. Just like I’m doing you now—but you knew that, didn’t you? Only difference is, I know for a fact Kelly liked it.” He took a final bite and washed it down with the last of his tea. It occurred to him he’d now had three generations of Walker women under his knife. He thought it was sweet. It felt right. The way things should be.
“Alright, Miss Lucy, time to get serious. What’d you say to O’Shea when you called him?”
“Told ’em the man … killed his sister … in my sittin’ room … send the law,” she said between labored breaths, and he laughed.
“Send the law … good one, Miss Lucy.” He set his plate down and picked up the hammer. “How ’bout I use this to shatter your knee. Bet you’ll tell me then.”
He stepped toward her, purposely bringing the heavy sole of his boot down on the tops of her feet.
“No, no, I lied … I didn’t tell him anything. I swear—nothing, I swear.” She was babbling and crying, her face twisted tight with terror, eyes squeezed shut against the sight of him.
“Liar, liar.” He brought the hammer down. It hit the kitchen table, the loud crack of it echoed in the small space. Her eyes popped wide, and she yelped like a whipped dog.
“I promise, I promise, please … please, don’t,” she said in a pleading rush. He dropped the hammer onto the table and smiled at her.
Finally, he was getting somewhere.
“Why’d you call him?” He knew he should be focusing on where to find Melissa, but the phone call was bothering him.
“He’s … my friend.” The tears started again.
“That ain’t sayin’ much. Up until about an hour ago, I was your friend, too,” he said with a sad shake of his head. “Do I have to worry about him busting in here tryin’ to save the day?” When she didn’t answer right away, he applied pressure to her feet with his boot. Already, the area surrounding the nail holes was bruised and swollen. When she cried out, she croaked so she sounded like a frog on the wrong end of a gigging fork.
“No.”
He watched her face for lies, but she only shook her head. The hopelessness in her eyes told him she was telling the truth. “That’s good. Real good, Miss Lucy.” He leaned back against the table and pulled the picture from his pocket. “This is Melissa.” It wasn’t a question but he held the photo up to her face for confirmation anyway. She said nothing, but when he stepped heavily on her wounds, she croaked again and nodded. “She’s calling herself Sabrina these days?” She said nothing, even when he twisted the heel of his boot, put-ting pressure on the head of the nail, driving it deeper into her foot. “That’s alright. I know the answer. Got it right here.” He fished the note from his back pocket and waved it at her. “I hear she’s living in California. What’ve you got to say about that?”
She must’ve found her second wind, because she spat at him again.
“Lord, save me from stubborn women,” he said under his breath. He flipped the picture over to read it out loud. “Jason and Riley Vaughn, age 16. Riley sure is a peach, ain’t she? Don’t think I’ve seen a beauty like her since … well, you know.” He looked up from the photo and smiled at her. “Either you tell me where Melissa is, or when I do find her, I’ll add little Riley here to my list. What I did to her big sister won’t even come close to what I’ll do to her,” he said.
She looked him in the eye and swallowed hard, running her tongue over her teeth, trying to clean away some of the blood.
“She won’t let you.” Her ironclad belief that even if he did manage to find the woman in the picture, he would be no match for her—that she was better—brought the rage screaming to the surface.
The picture crumpled in his fist and he stepped into the swing, landing a haymaker on the side of her head. The force of the blow would’ve knocked her over in her chair if not for the nails. She was unconscious now, but he slapped her again anyway. He picked up the knife and grabbed her by her hair and shook her. Used the grip he had on her scalp to revive her.
“Wakey, wakey, Miss Lucy.” He grinned when her eyes fluttered open. She was terrified, but not of him or what he would do to her. No, she was terrified because the words she’d fought so hard to keep to herself were near the surface, threatening to break free. She was on the edge, he could see it. All she needed was a little push.
“It’s there, right there on the tip of your tongue. Can you feel how close you are?” he said into her ear, and she shook her head against his grasp.
“I won’t … I won’t … I won’t …”
“Yes, you will. Where. Is. She?” He was close enough to feel her heart slamming around in her rib cage. It beat so hard and fast he was surprised it didn’t burst through her c
hest. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment before she exhaled.
“No,” she said, but they both knew this was her last stand. The next words out of her mouth would be the ones he wanted to hear.
“Have it your way.” He straddled her and yanked her head to the side to wedge the jagged edge of his knife into the crease behind her ear. “Tell me, Miss Lucy. Tell me where she is, and I’ll stop,” he said, but he knew the promise was a lie. There was no stopping now, not even if she talked. She said nothing, and he took her silence as another refusal.
He began to saw the knife back and forth. The serrated edge bit into the tender flesh behind her ear and chewed. Blood bloomed, a bright red flower behind her ear, and ran thick and warm down her neck.
He stopped for a moment, wiped sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. He caught sight of her arms, still bound to the chair. Her hands fluttered rapidly, like the tiny wings of a frightened bird. Music still flowed into the kitchen, and he imagined she was moving them in time with the melody.
He forced the knife deeper, separating the fleshy cartilage of her ear from the meat and bone of her skull. He pulled on the lobe and cut the last bit of if free, tightening his fist around her ear. It felt warm and wet in his hand. Her hands were suddenly still, and she stopped screaming. She’d passed out again.
Blood poured from the jagged hole and coursed down her neck. It soaked the front of her faded house dress, but she didn’t make a sound. He reached for the towel again and brought it, salty and wet, to the side of her ear and squeezed. Still nothing.
He stood back to drop the towel into the bowl and tossed her ear on the table. He’d do the other one next and maybe start on her fingers. She’d tell him where Melissa was soon enough. First, he needed to wake her.
He traded knife for extension cord, fashioned it into a makeshift noose, and slipped it over her head. He gave it a sharp yank, tightening it around her throat until it disappeared into the soft skin of her neck. Seconds passed. The sudden loss of air did nothing to rouse her. He jerked it again and her head tipped forward, her chin hit her chest with no resistance and stayed there. Something close to panic settled into his chest.
The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 1 Page 6
