Secrets in Blood: Lake Of Sins, #2

by L. S. O'Dea

  “Too heavy?” Benedictine picked up the pitcher. He held it over the glass.

  She stared eagerly as the water almost made it to the spout of the pitcher.

  “Not so fast.” Benedictine tipped it away from the glass. “You do want your offspring back at the encampment. Right?”

  She nodded, staring at the water.

  “Perhaps we can help each other. Tell me who helped her escape? We found the hole under the fence.”

  “She was taken,” she said, licking her dry lips.

  “Who is with her now, in the forest?” Benedictine shook the pitcher, the water sloshing inside.

  “I, I don’t know.”

  “You can do better than that.”

  “Truly. I don’t know.” She pulled her eyes away from the water and stared at the Almighty.

  Benedictine flung the pitcher across the room. It shattered on the floor, water and glass spreading out in glistening droplets.

  Jackson flinched. The Producer’s eyes widened.

  “Liar,” shouted Benedictine.

  She cowered in her chair.

  Benedictine turned toward him. “Take her to the cage.”

  Jackson stepped forward, grabbing her under the arm and escorted her down the stairs.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” she whispered.

  You really don’t want to know. He remained silent, stopping in front of the cage and unlocking the door. She stood frozen in the doorway.

  “Get in,” he said gruffly.

  She didn’t move. Benedictine was watching from above. He had to do something, so he gave her a gentle shove. She stumbled into the cage. Benedictine chuckled.

  He didn’t understand the joy the Almighty found in brutality. He closed the door. “Get back over here.”

  Her eyes filled with fear as she walked back to him.

  “Put your hands through the bars,” he said softly, holding a key.

  She lifted them as high as she could. He crouched down a bit and unlocked the cuffs. She sighed as the weight dropped from her arms.

  “Now, your head.” It wasn’t much, but it was the only comfort he could offer.

  She leaned forward and he removed the collar. It fell to the floor with a thud. She rubbed her neck. It was red and raw.

  “Shove them through the bottom of the cage,” he said.

  She bent and gasped.

  “Millie, what is it?” asked the male Producer as he walked over to her.

  Remy’s shirt was torn and his lip was cut. Dried blood speckled his cheek. The other Guards must have worked him over a bit. Jackson would never allow his Guards to act like that, but he had no control over the Guards who were stationed at the facility.

  “My ribs. I fell down the stairs,” she said.

  Remy glared at him and shoved the chains and collar through the bars. He bent and retrieved them. He didn’t care if the male thought he’d beat her. He hadn’t and that was all that mattered. He kicked the chains to the side and stood near the cage, straight and silent, mentally preparing for what was about to happen.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said as she looked up at Remy and gently touched his broken lip.

  “Not your fault. Troy...” Remy looked down at his feet and pressed the toe of one shoe onto the concrete back and forth.

  “It’s okay. They haven’t caught her,” she whispered.

  Jackson held back his snort. The other classes always underestimated a Guard’s hearing.

  The downstairs swinging door made a “swoosh” sound as the Stocker entered the room. He stood, unmoving for a moment except for tapping his foot. He was using the sound to get the dimensions of the room and its contents. All Stockers were basically blind and had no sense of smell. He was a typical specimen of his kind, built short and stout with muscular arms, a large nose and bald head. In contrast his dark eyebrows were so thick and bushy that they grew together over his beady eyes. After a moment, he tipped his head and then walked carefully across the room. He stopped by the table near the cage and grinned, showing crooked, yellow teeth.

  Millie and Remy huddled together in the farthest corner of the cage.

  Jackson shook his head in disgust. The Stocker couldn’t see the Producers and was smiling to scare them. He wished he were somewhere else. He liked the hunt but this was different. This was cruel. The Producers had no chance.

  “The male first,” ordered Benedictine from above.

  Three of the facility Guards headed toward the cage, making a wide berth around the Stocker. Guards and Stockers hated each other. It wasn’t uncommon for them to fight to the death, but Guards knew better than to initiate a confrontation in front of an Almighty, even if Stockers didn’t. They entered the cage. These Guards were chosen for brute strength, not brains. They were large and strong and by the anticipation in their eyes, it was clear that they enjoyed their job.

  The male Producer stood in front of the female, trembling. Jackson clenched his fists. They could do this differently. Make it kinder. Less stressful.

  As the Guards approached, the female pushed back against the wall and snorted in fear, her eyes wide and glazed. One of the Guards grabbed Remy by the arm. The Producer jerked back with all his strength, pulling the Guard forward. The Guard was large, but the Producer was bigger and stronger. Another Guard tapped Remy on the hip with the end of a long pole. A zap sounded and the Producer leapt forward. The Guards marshaled around him and herded him out of the cage. Jackson locked the door behind them.

  The female remained cowering in the corner for a moment and then stumbled forward, grasping the bars at the front.

  The Guards shoved Remy toward the table. Keeping a wary eye on the Stocker, they stripped the Producer of his clothes. One Guard fastened a chain around Remy’s ankle. The three Guards stepped back as another Guard near the wall flipped a switch. A machine hummed to life, the chain slowly retracting into the ceiling.

  Remy looked up, confusion and then panic washing over his features. He bent, pulling and yanking on the metal clasp that bound him, but it was too strong. As the chain ran out of slack he began biting at the lock, cutting his mouth. It grew taut and his leg was lifted behind him. He looked at the female. Despair shone in every aspect of his face.

  “No.” Millie screamed, pulling on the bars.

  Remy’s leg was yanked out from under him and he dropped to the floor, his hands breaking his fall. He continued to try and pull away, using the strength of his arms as he was slowly raised above the ground.

  When his hands no longer touched the floor the Guard at the wall flipped the switch and the chain stopped retracting.

  Millie fell silent. Jackson glanced at her. She should turn away, not watch, but she wouldn’t. None of them ever did; neither did he.

  Remy twitched and spun in the air. The Stocker lifted the tarp off the table with great flourish, exposing a large selection of tools—bats, poles, brass knuckles, knives, hatchets, saws.

  “I want it tender,” yelled Benedictine.

  Jackson shuddered. This was going to be a long one. He glanced back in the cage. The female’s eyes were wide and her hand covered her mouth. Probably, to hold in her scream.

  The Stocker ran his hand slowly over the tools. He picked up the bat, testing its weight against his hand. As he walked away from the table and toward Remy, he looked over and winked in the direction of the cage. Millie threw up the little water she had drunk.

  There was no reason for that. Stockers were notoriously cruel creatures. The other Guards chuckled at his antics. Guards could be cruel too.

  Remy’s gaze landed on the bat and he started thrashing about madly and crying out in garbled words. Once he bent almost in half to reach his ankle with his hands. After several moments, he dropped back down and slowly the writhing subsided.

  “Are you finished,” asked the Stocker in a pleasant, conversational tone.

  Remy nodded slightly.

  “Good.” The Stocker swung the bat and cracked the Producer on the
unchained leg. He used such force that when the wood connected with Remy’s body the Stocker’s feet raised off the floor several inches. A loud snap sounded.

  Remy screamed. The Stocker swung again and hit Remy in the stomach. The Producer gasped for breath. The Stocker continued to reposition himself and beat the male. Remy continued to scream, his agony one long note of pain.

  Jackson’s heart pounded. There was a thud from the cage. Millie sat crumpled on the floor, her arms wrapped around herself rocking back and forth. She stared straight ahead, her eyes no longer focused. If only she would die from fear, it would be easier on her. Unable to stop himself, he turned back to the main event.

  Time stood still as the sound of flesh being tenderized filled the air along with Remy’s garbled screams. The strong sound of the Producer’s voice had long since died away to whimpers and gurgles as blood spilled out of his mouth and ran off his body. Jackson’s nose twitched at the scent of fresh blood and fear. The hair stood up along his spine. At some point, the Stocker switched tools, trading in the bat for a smaller metal rod and then the rod to the brass knuckles.

  Then it was over. The Producer was dead. The only sound now was the soft humming of the female.

  The facility Guards paced restlessly. One even licked his lips.

  “Get him down,” yelled Benedictine.

  A Guard walked over to the wall and flipped the switch. Remy’s battered body crumpled onto the floor in a heap as the chain lowered. The Guard flipped the switch again and the machine stopped.

  The Stocker revved a chainsaw and then walked over to the corpse and lowered it to Remy’s hip. The humming ceased and a scuffling in the cage drew Jackson’s attention. The female sat huddled in the furthest corner whispering prayers. It would do her no good. There was no mercy to be found here.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE SOUND OF A CHAINSAW greeted Hugh as Buddy stopped the carriage at Benedictine’s building in the Warehouse District.

  “That does not sound good,” said Hugh.

  “I’m sorry.” Buddy hung his head.

  Why Buddy had thought he could keep up with the carriage carrying the Producers, he’d never know but it didn’t matter. Buddy had made his choice and now they must live with it. There was no reason to berate the Guard, especially since his orders had not been specific enough. He had to quit expecting Guards to think as logically as an Almighty.

  “It’s not your fault. You were right to leave the carriage for Sue. The offspring is more important than the parents.”

  “But they may never find the offspring,” said Buddy, shaking his head. “At least we had the mother.”

  “We still may.” He patted Buddy on the back and then jumped out of the carriage. “You did the best you could. No other Guard could have traveled that far and fast on foot.”

  Buddy stood a littler straighter as they entered the building. They followed the sound of the chainsaw, stopping in the slaughter room.

  “Male.” Buddy pointed to the carcass across the room.

  He prayed that the Guard was correct. He couldn’t tell anything from the bloody, hacked up mess. He turned away from the butchering and saw the female in the cage. “Holy Araldo, do they have to do this in front of them?”

  “Hugh Truent.” Benedictine called out from above. “What brings you here?” He leaned over the rail, smiling. “Come, join me for a drink.”

  “Stay,” he ordered Buddy as he climbed the stairs up to the balcony.

  Silence fell over the room. Thank Araldo, they’re done with the chainsaw. He winced as a dull thud echoed followed by another. Now, all he had to do was drown out the sound of the hatchet hitting flesh and bone.

  “What happened to you?” Benedictine motioned for him to take the chair across from him.

  He touched his cheek. “Mom’s House Servant.”

  “They should all be declawed.”

  He wouldn’t argue with that. As he sat, he realized that he had a perfect view of the slaughter room. His stomach clenched. The Stocker hacked off a hunk of meat and tossed it to one of the Guards who placed it on a table. “Is that even sanitary?”

  “My facilities are certified yearly and surpass all the health codes regulations.” Benedictine slurred his words slightly.

  The whiskey bottle on the table was more than half empty; this didn’t bode well for the Producers. Benedictine had a cruel streak when sober which only worsened from drink. The assortment of bloody tools on the table below told the story of a painful death. He didn’t agree with the longer methods of killing used for the slaughter. The idea that the meat tasted better that way was absurd.

  “I’m sure you do. I’m just not used to seeing it.” He had to tread lightly. He had no rights to the female Producer. He’d have to convince Benedictine to give her to him.

  A Guard came out of one of the balcony doors with a glass. Benedictine poured an inch of liquor in the new one and two inches in his own.

  They sat in silence watching the Stocker work. He had to be careful how he approached this subject. Too eager and Benedictine would become suspicious. He hadn’t anticipated the other Almighty being half-drunk. That made it a little trickier. Too bad Benedictine wasn’t just a little bit drunker.

  “Not for everyone.” Benedictine nodded at the activities below.

  The downstairs floor was red. There was a lot more blood than he’d thought and he’d never imaged the hunks of flesh and the smell. He couldn’t quite describe it, but it was not pleasant. He was sure he caught a whiff of defecation. He swallowed. Hopefully, he wouldn’t associate this smell with meat. He’d hate to become vegetarian like his mother.

  “No, definitely not. I couldn’t imagine my mother witnessing this.”

  Benedictine laughed. “Not with her beliefs.” He took another drink. “And you?”

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to watch it every day, but I hunt so I’m familiar with death.” That was a lie. The birds and rabbits that he shot with his bow and arrow were nothing like this.

  Benedictine grunted in agreement. “Do you want to take some steaks home for dinner? There’s a world of difference in the taste when they’re this fresh.”

  “That’d be great.” The hacked up carcass on the floor below turned his stomach but he couldn’t refuse, especially after questioning the cleanliness of the facility.

  “Wrap up a couple of nice steaks for Hugh,” Benedictine yelled to the Stocker below. He glanced at Hugh, raising his glass. “To a delicious dinner.”

  He picked up the other glass and tapped it against Benedictine’s, taking his first sip. It slid down his throat in a warm burn. “Very good.”

  “It’s not a popular brand but it’s one of my favorites.” Benedictine turned toward him. “Thank you for the carriage. It’s a nice one. I hate to leave it in the LS Garage. The Almighty who owns the place lets his Guard run the business.” He shook his head in disgust.

  “Why don’t you park it at home?” He really didn’t care but he had to play nice.

  “Can’t. Don’t have a garage. Can’t build one either. Some rule about maintaining the neighborhood’s historic value.” He took another drink, turning back toward the Stocker. “A load of Gruntshit if you ask me.”

  “Lake of Sins Village is a nice area.” He took another sip of his drink.

  Benedictine grunted again.

  “Good schools, low crime.” He glanced at the other Almighty. “Nice place to raise your kids. Nothing is more important than family.”

  “I agree.” Benedictine faced him again, wariness in his eyes.

  The other Almighty was more sober than he’d thought. He’d have to proceed carefully. “Your son is graduating from high school this year, right?”

  “Yes.” The word was clipped, Benedictine’s tone harsh.

  “I was thinking about offering him an internship with my company.” He took a drink, drawing out the moment. “If he’s interested in my kind of work.” He fought to keep the smug smile from his lips. An inte
rnship from him would open doors for the Remore family that had been closed for decades.

  Benedictine’s eyes widened for a moment and then narrowed. “Why would you do that? A ruined carriage is not worth what you’re offering.”

  “I need the female Producer you have in the cage downstairs.”

  Benedictine studied him for a long moment before replying. “That I cannot do.”

  “So, you aren’t interested in advancement for your son.”

  “I’m very interested, but the price is too high.” Benedictine finished his drink on one large gulp. “I can give you another Producer.”

  He shook his head. He should’ve known it wouldn’t work. Even with an internship, the Remore family would be ruined by another escape. It was time for plan B. “I heard you had a little...misfortune at one of your camps. Something about a few murders and an escape. It’s a young female who’s missing, right?”

  “Yes,” said Benedictine, filling his own glass again. “But we’ll catch her.” He took a sip. “How’d you learn of it?”

  He eyed his almost empty glass. Pleasantries were over. “I have my resources.” Let the other Almighty think there was a mole in his organization.

  Benedictine stared at him for a long moment. “Who knows of the escape?”

  He glanced around. He and Buddy were outnumbered. The incident years ago had squashed any hope of advancement for the Remore family. Another escape could mean the end of the only livelihood left to them. Murder had been committed for less.

  “No other Almighty, but I have told my Guards. You won’t be able to keep it quiet for long.”

  “Is that a threat?” Benedictine leaned back in his seat.

  Like a snake preparing to strike. “No. Not at all. I have no intention of telling anyone. Well, not without your permission.”

  “Why would I give you my permission?” asked Benedictine, a smile in his tone but not his eyes.

  It was time to bait the trap. “Your son’s handicap must be difficult, especially at his age.” The more he wound up Benedictine, the more relief when he let him go. “You know, with teenage girls and everything that goes along with them.” He winked at the other Almighty.