Blood in the Water (Kairos)

by Catherine Johnson

  The man only grunted, sputtering the sound past the free-flowing blood. Paul took his right ear next. When he was answered with another grunt, he started on the hands. He took two fingers from the right hand first, carving from the knuckle just underneath the nail. That left him plenty more finger to work with. He wanted to leave an ear, the lips and the tongue. He needed for the Mexican to be able to hear him and to be able to speak, but he knew he could work around those limitations. He asked again, and received no answer. He started working his knife into the joint of the third finger, repeating his query about who had fed the intel about their early return. As he dissected the lump of flesh in front of him, Paul realized that he had changed. His ability to do this work was no longer powered by the cold, empty pit in his soul; now it was fuelled by rage, icy rage. But in no way did it lessen his focus. The constant thought that Ashleigh might be hurt or be put in danger was gasoline on the fire.

  “Shark!”

  Paul stopped and turned at Kong’s shout. Kong indicated with his head and Paul saw that Geoff, pale and shaking on the edge of the bed frame, had wet himself. Every other man had been watching with dispassionate interest.

  Paul looked up at Samuel. When Samuel spoke, his voice held no emotion. “Get another chair. Side by side.”

  Dizzy pulled another frame chair from the side of the room and set it up next to the bloodstained Mexican. Kong manhandled the visibly shaking Geoff from the bed frame to the chair. It might have been that the young man just didn’t have the stomach to witness the vivisection of another human being. Paul wanted to find out; but he was still wet and tired, so he decided to speed things up.

  He gestured to the Mexican. “Strip him.” Dizzy and Terry yanked the bleeding man out of his seat and pulled down his jeans. One stood on either side, keeping a firm hold to ensure he stayed standing.

  Paul squatted in front of Geoff. There was no need to bind him; he was paralyzed with fear. His curly brown hair was matted to his head with sweat. “Watch. I want an answer.”

  Paul turned to the Mexican and took hold of his limp dick. Even at that small touch the man’s grunts began deep in his throat, as if he could vocally prepare for what was coming next. The tip of Paul’s knife disappeared into the nest of black hair, and blood began to trickle down the man’s thigh as his animal noises increased in volume and frequency. Paul felt the tip of his wickedly sharp blade slip into the weak flesh, and then Geoff shouted.

  “It was me! Oh. Fuck. God, it was me!”

  Paul squatted in front of the whimpering Prospect. “Please. Go on.”

  Geoff was barely audible between his own sobs and the breathless grunts of the man still being supported by Dizzy and Terry. “I... I... It was me. I told them you were comin’ back...I... I... I’m sorry. I... I didn’t... want... mean... I didn’t...”

  “You didn’t mean for Dean to be killed? Boy, what the fuck did you think would happen?” Paul demanded.

  “I... I don’t know... I ... I just wanted...”

  “What?” Samuel’s voice was strident. “What did you just want? What did you just fucking want that was worth my life? That was worth the life of my son?”

  “M...M...My patch.” At least the wretch had the good grace to hang his head under the weight of his shame. “I wanted it and... and... I didn’t get it and then this guy... he... he... came up to me in.... Joe’s diner the day.... the mornin’ after the vote. We... we got talkin’ and I was so angry and he asked and I told him and... Oh Jesus, Samuel, I am so fucking sorry about Dean... I am you have to believe me.... I really am.”

  “When Samuel called you, you called the Mexicans? You told them about the fundraiser too?” Paul asked.

  “Yes. Yeah I did. I’m so sorry.” Geoff sobbed.

  “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Samuel bellowed. The room was silent. Not even the mice under the floor boards moved. Geoff stifled his sobs into hiccups.

  “Kill him.” Samuel’s voice had lost all tone and emotion.

  “No.” Paul felt the weight of that word. He stood as he said it. If he was going to defy his president on this he wouldn’t do it from nearly on his knees.

  “What do you mean ‘no’? Kill him.”

  “No. I think we can make him a better message than that. Let me work his hands. I can make it so he never rides again. He’ll be fuckin’ lucky if the surgeons don’t take them. He definitely wont ever fucking use them the same again. If we kill him we’re buryin’ him in the ground outside. If no one finds him, no one hears.”

  Samuel paused for what seemed like forever. “Okay.”

  Paul nodded to Terry and Dizzy. They set the Mexican back into his seat and grabbed Geoff by his arms.

  “I want him on the floor. Arms out.”

  Terry and Dizzy forced Geoff to the floor. They pulled his arms outstretched, each man leaning heavily on a limb. It adequately prevented the Prospect from moving the rest of his body. Paul reversed his knife and, using the hilt as a hammer, brought it down over and over and over again on Geoff’s hands. Every couple of hits, he reversed it and stabbed the blade straight through the appendage. There was no ink to take, and when Paul was done, Geoff’s hands were barely recognizable as human body parts, and he had involuntarily defecated. They let him free and he curled up on the floor around his ruined hands, mewling like a kitten.

  The Mexican had watched the show from his chair. Paul was panting a little from the exertion of using his knife as a hammer. Samuel pointed to the Mexican. “Finish from where you left off. He’s our callin’ card. They boiled Eduardo’s men. I want them to know what happens when they step into our back yard.”

  Paul nodded. Now that they didn’t need information, he started at the top and worked his way down, tossing the bits and pieces of flesh, bone and muscle that he removed in to a small pile on the wooden boards and adding substantially to the bloodstains. The Mexican hung on for an impressively long time, but taking his pride and joy finished him off. Severing those arteries was usually the death blow. He died with a rattling hiss from behind the clenched teeth in what was left of his ruined mouth.

  The five other members in the room had watched without making a sound. Sinatra was a little green around the edges and a little wild--eyed when he looked at Paul, but he held. Sometimes the old ways were the best, even though nothing could cause enough pain to balance out what had been done. Paul remembered once chatting with Dean about this method; he felt it was a sort of tribute to use it now.

  Kong was tasked with delivering the mutilated Geoff the to a hospital at least a hundred miles from Absolution The remains of the body of the Mexican were wrapped in a tarp that Dizzy had pulled from the bedroom and flung into the back of the van along with the sobbing Prospect. Kong was free to leave the hunk of flesh wherever he felt like it.

  Paul stepped outside to the trickle of a stream that cut through the muddy ground a few feet from the door of the shack. His clothes were a lost cause, but he wanted to get as much blood as he could off his hands before he rode. He turned at the sound of footsteps. Samuel was carrying his kutte over. Paul stood, wiping his hands dry on the back of his jeans.

  “My girl at yours?” Samuel had gone flat, like a balloon with the air let out. The aura of hard authority that he had shown inside the shack had bled out, replaced by the resurging grief.

  “She should be?” He took his kutte when Samuel offered it to him and put it on. The heavy leather was the mask, the skin that allowed him to pretend that the things he was capable of were in some way normal, needed even.

  “Will you tell her... about her brother?”

  “If you want me to.”

  “Yes. She’ll need you. I’ll tell her mama.” Samuel sighed and looked out into the dark woods. When he turned back, his look was appraising, as if seeing something about Paul that he hadn’t before. Paul figured he pretty much deserved it. It wasn’t every day you saw someone do what he had just done to another human being. He wondered if, once the grief wore off, Samuel would have second t
houghts about letting him anywhere near his daughter.

  Paul didn’t know what to say. There were no words that could bring Dean back or that could erase the grief. He was honored to be trusted with Ashleigh’s well-being and wished that he was that worthy, that he was the man his president thought he was. He wanted to deserve the trust and respect he was being given, but he never would.

  They separated, Sam and Terry heading to the clubhouse with Dizzy and Sinatra following. Sinatra was still driving the truck with Dean’s bike strapped forlornly to the bed. Paul was both relieved and reluctant to set eyes on his house. The day had seemed like it would never end. He felt that no matter how much he slept it would still never end.

  Paul could see from the glow in the glass of the porch door that Ashleigh had left the small lamp on in the hallway, but otherwise the house was in darkness. He knew which boards creaked and which doors needed oil on their hinges. He slipped silently through the house to the kitchen. He stripped and tied his bloody clothes in a trash bag. Ashleigh didn’t need to see them. He’d burn them in the morning, or later that day. He avoided looking at the clock. Knowing what hour it was would only increase his exhaustion. He left his kutte hooked over the back of a kitchen chair and walked naked to the bedroom. His whole being was crying out for Ashleigh’s comforting touch, but he didn’t relish delivering the pain he knew he was bringing to her.

  She was asleep in his bed. Her glorious hair spread across the pillow. She knew he preferred her to leave it loose when they slept. It was one of life’s great pleasures to wake up to that spun gold glinting in the morning light. She was lying on her stomach, the sheet twisted over her back leaving her bare shoulders open to the cooling air. She looked so young in her sleep, ignorant of the hurt he carried. He took a while to watch her, to let her have that innocence a moment or two longer. She seemed to feel the weight of his gaze and stirred, her eyes fluttering open. As she woke, he slipped under the covers and pulled her against his chest.

  “Baby, I wasn’t expectin’ you until at least noon tomorrow.”

  “I know. Ash, beauty... there...” Jesus, he couldn’t force the words out. “There was an accident. It was rainin’...” He felt the tension harden her limbs as she came fully awake.

  “An accident. Who’s hurt? Daddy? Dean? We need to go.”

  He held her more tightly, trying to quell the panic he could feel surging through her.

  “We don’t need to go. It’s too late. Beauty, your brother, Dean... he came off his bike in the rain. His neck broke.”

  “He’s at St Raphael’s? Is he paralyzed? My god, we have to get there!”

  He wrapped both arms around her. “No beauty. It’s too late. He’s dead.”

  “No. No.” She stuttered. “He can’t be.” She shook her head frantically and he held her tighter.

  “I’m sorry beauty. It was quick. There was nothin’ any of us could do.”

  “No. Nooo. No.” She was beating his chest with her fists despite the firm hold he had on her. “He can’t be dead. Where’s my daddy? You’re lyin’.”

  “Your daddy’s at the clubhouse tellin’ your momma. I’ll take you there tomorrow, beauty. We need to give them a little time.”

  “No. I don’t believe you. He’s not dead. He can’t be.”

  Paul grabbed her head in both of his palms, his hands dwarfing her face as he made her look at him. “Beauty. Your brother is dead and he ain’t ever comin’ back. I’m sorry.” He hated having to be so blunt but he needed to get through to her somehow.

  Her crystal blue eyes glistened. A single tear rolled out of one eye and down her cheek, then another, then both eyes, then faster and faster. The news seemed to finally penetrate fully, and Ashleigh collapsed against him, sobbing.

  Paul held her tightly to him, feeling more impotent and helpless than he ever had in his life. He kissed the top of her head, only needing to let her know that he was there. His cock began to stir and harden. He couldn’t help it, she had been naked beneath the covers and his body didn’t recognize her mourning, but he tried to will it down. She needed comfort, not that.

  She turned her flushed, tear-stained face up to his. He pressed a soft kiss on her swollen lips, then another. One was not enough. He needed her to know... he would do anything to take the pain away. He kissed her again, but this time she kissed him back.

  “Please.” Her voice was small and hoarse. “Make it not hurt anymore.”

  He knew it was futile, but he would do anything she asked. If she had begged for the moon he would have found a way to pluck it from the sky without question. He kissed her again, deeper this time. Her whole body moved sinuously against his. She brushed against his cock, which turned to steel at her touch, but she didn’t flinch.

  He couldn’t touch enough of her, his hands roamed over and over her perfect skin seemingly of their own will. Their bodies slid against each other and still it wasn’t enough. He felt crazed with the need of her. Judging by her erratic breathing and frantic movements she was feeling it, whatever it was, too. Paul rolled Ashleigh onto her back, needing to be in control, needing to make her feel... He wanted to fill his senses with her, to crowd out the grief and the anger with touch, smell and taste.

  He began to move down her body, intending to bury his face in that so sweet part, but he felt her clutching at him, pulling him back up over her. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him tightly to her. When she gave a small shake of her head he saw that she wanted to keep him close, he thought he understood that need.

  Ashleigh flexed and her wet folds were rubbing along his cock which was aching with the need to be in her. He could feel on his sensitive skin that she was drenched and ready for him. He rested on his forearms to give her room to breathe without losing contact and then rocked his hips, sliding into her welcoming body.

  He offered comfort and solace with every movement of his body, every thrust of his hips, and with every shift of her body she took it and demanded more. They were soon slick with sweat. It was so intimate, surging, flesh against flesh, so close they were almost breathing each other in. When he felt her scalding, silky sheath tighten he drove harder still into her body until the world exploded for both of them in a shower of stars. He didn’t let go, unwilling to let even a hairsbreadth of space between them. He only shifted so that Ashleigh wasn’t crushed under his weight, and then he held her as she cried.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It had been not quite two weeks since the night that Paul had arrived home and told her that her brother was dead. The autopsy had shown what those who had witnessed the accident suspected, that Dean’s neck had broken when he’d landed on the highway after losing control of his bike in the pouring rain.

  In the morning when she’d awoken and realized that it hadn’t been a nightmare, that Dean was indeed dead and wasn’t at the clubhouse waiting with a new joke or a tale about one of the boys or just a smile, she’d felt her heart physically snap. It felt like the fabric of reality had been torn and that the rip was in the center of her chest. The rent was still gaping wide enough to suck the whole world in and turn everything inside out. She felt drained and exhausted, like maybe Dean had taken her life force with him when he’d gone. She was nothing but a husk. If not for Paul holding her up, a solid, unwavering tower of strength by her side, she would have fallen. She was still struggling to wrap her head around someone so lively and vital and strong could be alive one moment and dead the next.

  In moments like this, when she first opened her eyes in the morning, before sleep had fully left her brain, she let herself believe that he was alive, but the reality that he was gone kept crashing back over her like a bleak, grey wave. Today the wave threatened to drown her; today was the day of her brother’s funeral. Her thirtieth birthday had passed two days before, but she hadn’t celebrated it. She wasn’t sure that her parents had remembered or whether it had just been too much for them to think about. Ether way she hadn’t reminded them. Paul had found out somehow, som
eone must have told him, but he didn’t make a fuss. He’d presented her with a single red rose, they’d ordered takeout and he’d made love to her so slowly and gently that she’d felt like the only woman on earth.

  Paul hadn’t woken yet, but Ashleigh didn’t feel like she could lie in bed any longer. She needed distraction, so she edged out of the bed, being careful not to wake the sleeping giant next to her, and headed for the shower. She ran the water hot and let the spray soak her as it turned her skin pink. She wasn’t entirely sure whether she was officially living at Paul’s house now, but she’d barely been home in two weeks. She’d emptied her fridge and collected most of her clothes. It was probably a conversation that they needed to have, but not today, definitely not today.

  Paul was awake when she re-entered the bedroom, but Ashleigh couldn’t find the words in her to speak, even to say ‘Good Morning.’ He seemed to understand and kissed her gently as he passed her on his way into the bathroom. She was stepping into a black shift dress when he came back into the bedroom. Any other morning she would have shown the proper appreciation for the sight of him in nothing but a towel, but this morning she felt like she’d been drugged or that gravity had increased, making it difficult for her to move her limbs. She struggled with the zip on the dress, but then Paul’s hands softly moved hers out of the way and he slid the fastening closed for her. It was a blazingly hot day, thickly humid, making everything even more sluggish.