ELIJAH: A Suspense Novel

by Frank Redman

  Winchester said, Open the door.

  I complied.

  We entered this new area and stepped onto plush, red carpeting. Mahogany covered the walls.

  Behind us, the door automatically closed. There were no door handles, buttons, or any other method that I could see to open the doors from this side.

  I whispered, “Is this where Lynch lives?”

  Winchester said, Yes. Now be quiet.

  Bossy, aristocratic, saving-my-life cat.

  I was sure Lynch came and went as he pleased. So he had to have a separate entrance into the building. This exit was where I assumed Winchester was taking me.

  Even though he was a cat, and by nature as silent as cottonwood seeds floating in the air, Winchester walked slowly, creeping down the hallway.

  Even though I can be as dull as a cinder block, I registered Winchester’s caution and engaged stealth mode.

  We passed a door, and I could hear Lynch’s unmistakable mirthless laugh.

  I stopped and listened intently. If he was laughing, there was little doubt some atrocity was occurring.

  Winchester said, What are you doing? Come on.

  I gestured with my head toward the door. The laughing on the other side could easily be heard.

  Winchester said, Are you crazy? Come on.

  I looked at the doorknob. Maybe I was crazy, but I couldn’t help it. I was compelled to act. To my surprise, my scars had not burned throughout this escapade, including when I kicked the orderly. I had not been in danger.

  Now, as I stared at the doorknob, the burning flared.

  I kept staring.

  Winchester said, Elijah, come on.

  Of my paranormal talents, telekinesis is not one of them. Though that would definitely be cool. No matter how long I stared at the doorknob, the door was not going to open on its own.

  The door opened.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A boy, brown hair, brown eyes, maybe ten, stood in front of me. He was wearing only girl’s pink panties. His face was expressionless. His eyes empty. His nose bled. He made no attempt to leave the room, nor did he turn around. He didn’t even wipe the blood from his nose. He just stared at me. A vacant stare devoid of emotion.

  I looked over his head and into the room.

  Lynch had stopped laughing. A look of shock on his face. He was naked. Folds of skin hung from his midsection. Despite being in a wheelchair earlier, he was standing just fine. In one hand he held a long stick with two tines at the end. Probably a cattle prod. In the other, what looked to be a wired remote, with the wire going to a black box on the floor.

  Two girls, somewhere around ten as well, leaned on Lynch’s legs. They were also unclothed.

  Various sex toys that I cannot bring myself to describe littered the floor.

  Wires from the black box were clipped to different spots on the girls. One girl was smiling, though she had tears running down her face. The other had her eyes closed. She seemed so lifeless she might have been dead.

  Searing. Hot. Fury. Erupted from my core. My eyes blurred. My fingernails gouged the skin on my palms. The desire—no, need—for violence overwhelmed me. I felt little chips of something in my mouth and realized I was grinding my teeth. Forcefully.

  I wanted to beat that man. Torture him.

  Kill him.

  He was unbelievably strong. It would not be easy. I didn’t care. And that wouldn’t matter when he was dead.

  I nearly gave into the hate, let go of the restraint, and surrender to the clarion call of sweet, vengeful violence… but I felt sharp needles dig into my right calf. Startled, I looked down and saw Winchester looking up at me.

  The freaking cat bit me! I wanted to kick it down the hallway.

  Then I heard, Elijah, Elijah, come back. Listen to me. The black box shocks the girls. It can electrocute them. If you attack him, he will kill the girls.

  I stopped. I looked at the box, looked at the remote in the monster’s hand. The cat was right. One of the girls might already be dead.

  I tried to regain some semblance of control.

  Winchester bit me to keep me from jumping off the cliff into full-on ferocity. In an embarrassed moment of brief clarity, I wondered if Someone else instructed Winchester to bite. I didn’t understand what rules God had for intervening. Or not. I never would.

  I also wondered where the goons or orderlies, or anyone were. I had planned on getting out and getting help. As much as I wanted to be a one-man search, rescue—and destroy—team, I couldn’t.

  This seemed too easy, too convenient to find Lynch, unprotected by his entourage. Was I being set up?

  Lynch’s look of shock turned into a wanton smile. “Little duck. I thought you were scheduled to be the new you tomorrow. You must be eager. The good doctor moved you ahead of schedule. Would you like to join us? We’re having so much fun! Aren’t we girls?”

  The one smiling said in a broken voice, “Yes, His Grace.” The slumped girl did not move or make a sound.

  “Join us, little duck.”

  The boy moved to the side so I could enter.

  I walked into the room.

  Lynch’s smile spread. He dropped the cattle prod and rubbed his hand over his chest and midsection, licking his lips. He still held the remote to the shock box in the other hand.

  I was furiously trying to figure out how I could get the remote out of his hand before he again hurt the girls. My eyes glanced around at the objects on the floor, at the smiling but unhappy girl, at the unmoving girl.

  I prayed she wasn’t already dead.

  A sudden but complete sadness washed over me. All of the pain, the humiliation, those girls and the boy had endured that night. And other nights. Other girls. Other boys. Countless.

  Why would a man like Lynch be allowed to live? All of the evil, the agony he created.

  And all of the other people like Lynch in the world, or even half as bad, a tenth. Why were they alive, allowed to hurt people time and time again? I didn’t understand. Why didn’t they drop dead from a heart attack? Why were so many innocent lives allowed to be corrupted… or snuffed out?

  Hitler was before my time. Even with all of the suffering I have endured, that I have helplessly watched others endure, I cannot come close to fathoming what the millions of victims of concentration camps endured. The families, the children. And so I cannot do justice in trying to describe what they must have felt. Millions.

  But I could imagine, all of them crying out, even as they exhaled that final, dying breath, Stop him!

  Make him stop. Save the innocent. Protect them, for they cannot protect themselves.

  We witness child abuse. Some witness it frequently. But we don’t really see. Open forced-close eyes and SEE. Get involved. Protect. Be a safe haven. Even if it means stepping out of your comfort zone, putting yourself at risk. For you are more capable of defending yourself than a helpless child. Sacrifice.

  If you have children, you know what I am saying. You know you would do anything to protect them, sacrificing yourself to do so.

  Abused children do not have you, that hero, willing to sacrifice, willing to protect them. They need your protection. Inform authorities. Let justice take its course. We all know justice is not always perfect. But at least it provides those kids a chance, something they don’t have without you.

  I slowly stepped up to Lynch.

  He looked at the girls and licked his lips some more. “Little treats. Sweet little treats. Would you like one?”

  I nodded and held my left hand for the remote. I did not know if he would release control so easily, but it was worth trying. I did not speak, fearing my voice would betray the calm demeanor I faked.

  He said, “Oh no, little duck, this is my favorite toy. Maybe someday you can try it. Want to see what happens to the—”

  I stabbed Lynch in the neck with a syringe I’d removed from my pocket as I walked toward him, angling my body to hide the movement. He dropped the remote, staggered, and fell to
a knee. Because of his immense bulk, the tranquilizer was not having an immediate, debilitating effect.

  The smiling girl scrambled backwards. The limp girl just slid to the floor.

  He reached for the dropped remote next to him. I quickly pulled out another syringe and stabbed him in the back. The needle broke before I could press the plunger. He yelled but kept reaching for the remote. “Little duck, watch the girl! Watch the girl fry!”

  He was in between me and the remote, and there was no way I could reach it before he could.

  I kicked him the face, snapping his head back, expecting him to fall down. He did not. I felt bone break from the impact. Blood gushed out of his nose.

  I saw a blur of grey peripherally.

  Winchester gingerly picked up the remote in his mouth and moved out of Lynch’s range.

  I took out a third syringe and again stabbed him in the neck, giving him the full shot.

  He fell to his side, breathing heavily, still awake, but no longer able to move with authority.

  I said, “Thank you, Winchester.”

  Lynch rolled his eyes up to look at the traitorous cat.

  I wanted to see if the limp girl was alive, but first I needed to deal with the shock box. I’d never seen anything like it before. Allister’s level of sophistication for torture peaked at baseball bats. Other abusive homes I’d lived in were a little more sophisticated, graduating to curling irons, yet still too barbaric in their methods of cruelty.

  The box was not plugged into an outlet, so it must have had internal batteries of some kind. There was a tiny LED readout and a few buttons on top. I crouched to get a better look. I was afraid to touch it, not wanting to inadvertently send electric current to the girls.

  The boy surprised me by kneeling next to me. He carefully grabbed each wire connecting the box and the girls and disconnected them from the box by pulling them. He did the same to the remote wire. He had experience with this box.

  He then walked over to each of the girls and took off the clamps. There were six attached to each girl. He dropped the collected clamps in front of me.

  I crawled over to the limp girl. I felt for a pulse, but did not find one. I put my ear to her mouth, trying to feel and listen for breathing, however faint.

  I felt nothing.

  For a second.

  Then I felt rage.

  I stood and stared down at Lynch. My shoulders rose and fell as I breathed deeply, seething.

  Somehow he was still awake. He smiled.

  I kicked his teeth in. I didn’t say anything. I just kicked. I saw the cattle prod on the floor. It would do nothing to him. I started to kick him again. I was going to kick and kick and kick until his head caved in. Getting kicked in the head to death was too good for this worthless trash!

  I moved to get into a better striking position—

  Winchester bit my leg again.

  “Arg!”

  I turned on the cat, wanting to make a quick target of him.

  He sat unphased, staring at me. No Elijah. Not like this.

  Not like this...

  Don’t be like Allister. Don’t be… a demon.

  Lynch groaned behind me.

  I turned back around and gave him the last of the four syringes I had. I wanted to save that shot in case I met anyone else. But I wanted even more to make sure Lynch was completely out.

  And, who was I kidding, I still wanted to cave in his head.

  But I didn’t.

  I looked at Winchester. For the second time in just a few minutes I thanked the cat.

  I gathered one set of girl clothes and showed them to the smiling girl. “Are these yours?”

  She nodded meekly.

  I took them to her.

  She was still smiling, and her eyes were still crying.

  I didn’t know what Lynch had given her, nor how long her face would be frozen in a forced smile. The pain in her facial muscles had to be intense. Yet I am sure she had endured worse. Much worse.

  I led her to a connecting bathroom so she could dress in private.

  I pulled a small blanket from a bed and covered the dead girl. I looked at the still form underneath… then I fell to the floor.

  And sobbed.

  The end of a finger was exposed from under the blanket. I pushed the fabric back enough for me to hold the still warm hand.

  This girl wasn’t my Chloe. Nor was she my daughter, of course. I’d never seen her before. I didn’t even know her name.

  None of that mattered.

  She was an innocent life, dying in torture, dying in vain.

  If maybe I’d arrived a few minutes earlier…

  I felt my body shaking with my sobs. I pressed my forehead to the floor. I didn’t wail, beat my chest in anguish, or anything like that. I just sobbed. Defeated.

  I knew it would do no good to ask why. But I did anyway. Repeatedly.

  It’s human nature. We were born to ask why, to try to understand things we never can. When someone dies unexpectedly, we want to know why. We do autopsies and investigations. I’m not saying those things are wrong. They’re necessary. But they’re born from our desire to know why. We want to know cause of death, in part, because that helps us deal a little with the why, why did this person have to die?

  I felt a small hand on my back, and even a smaller voice said, “Amber.”

  I turned to see the boy squatting next to me. His face showed no compassion, but his actions spoke volumes. He had dressed. He was barely touching my back and seemed ready to bolt at any sudden movement. The courage it must have taken to approach me, to speak, was amazing. He removed his hand.

  I was shocked at the simple act of kindness.

  I wiped my eyes and face with my shirt with one hand, still holding onto Amber with the other. “Her name is Amber?”

  He nodded.

  We sat in communal silence for a while.

  I didn’t want to let go of Amber’s hand, but I knew I had to. I could not hold on forever. Somehow, my mind said none of this was real as long as I held her hand. I guessed Reason had had enough and wasn’t coming out.

  I said, “What’s your name?”

  He said, “Tommy,” so softly I could barely hear him.

  “You’re brave, Tommy.”

  “So are you.”

  The smiling girl returned, still smiling, still in pain.

  We both looked up at her. I said, “Hi.” I felt foolish, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  She looked at me without saying anything, then looked at my hand holding Amber’s. She sat on the floor, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

  I said, “Is there anything I can do ease the strain on your face?”

  She shook her head.

  Tommy said, gaining a little confidence with me, “It wears off after an hour or so. His Grace brought us in here forty minutes ago. Amber’s face smiled too until she got shocked too much.”

  I glanced at Lynch. Then closed my eyes, forcing back the rage. Again.

  More communal silence.

  I was worried one of the orderlies or someone would find us, but my scars did not burn.

  I said, “What’s your name?”

  Tommy said, “She doesn’t like to talk. Her name is Holly.”

  “Hi Holly. My name is Elijah.” She didn’t respond in any way. I looked at both of them. “Why is no one else here?”

  Tommy said, “His Grace has everyone put to sleep each night except for the ones he wants to play with. Tonight was our turn.”

  “Where are the orderlies, or guards, or doctors?”

  “They are asleep also. His Grace doesn’t want any adult seeing him play. He likes to chase us. We run in the hallway, acting like we can’t get away, which we can’t, and he chases us. You can enter this part of the building but you can’t leave except through a special door.”

  “Everyone is asleep?”

  “Four people go around giving everyone shots that makes them sleep, to
make sure no one can see His Grace. Then they give themselves a shot.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Wow.”

  “It’s true,” said Tommy, defensively.

  “I believe you, don’t worry.”

  Communal silence.

  “How long are you going to hold Amber’s hand?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. I wish I could forever.”

  “God will take care of her now.”

  That surprised me. “You think so?”

  He nodded.

  “You believe that after living… here?”

  Tommy looked at the floor. “I have to believe in something.”

  I nodded.

  Yes, God would take care of her.

  I looked at the blanket covering Amber. It was time. I squeezed her hand lightly, said, “Goodnight, Amber, God bless you,” and let go.

  She reached for me.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I admit it: I jumped. I didn’t scream like a little girl, but I sure as hell jumped.

  I’m not a doctor, nor have I ever had any medical training whatsoever. But I would swear Amber was dead. Or as Dickens wrote of poor Marley, ‘dead as a doornail.’ No doubt in my mind.

  After she reached for me, she went still again.

  I glanced at both Tommy and Holly. They both sat wide-eyed, staring at Amber’s hand. Her body was still covered by the blanket.

  Tommy said, “Is she a zombie?”

  I said, “Zombies aren’t real. But something definitely weird just happened.”

  We waited a little while longer to see if anything else weird would happen. Amber did not move. I wondered if it was some sort of fluke, a muscle spasm caused by the electricity that may have still been in her body.

  I don’t know, besides not being a doctor, I’m also not an electrician.

  We waited.

  Nothing happened. Nothing still happened.

  Amber moved.

  This time Holly screamed like a little girl, which was excusable since she was a little girl. Though it seemed ironic since she had to scream through the frozen smile.

  Tommy scrambled to his feet and jumped back. I imagined if a shotgun were available, he’d be putting holes in the blanket.