SICARII: Part III

by Adrienne Wilder

  The assistant principal Mrs. Marsh walked over. “There you are.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’re two police detectives here to talk to you about what happened with Karl.”

  Sam peered around Mrs. Marsh’s tall frame. Two gentlemen in nice suits stood by the side exit of the foyer just beyond the office of the head coach.

  “Roshan and I already talked to one a couple days ago.”

  “Well, apparently they need to talk to you again.”

  “Now?” It had to be almost eight o’clock.

  “I’m sure if they could have come sooner, they would have. It will only take a few minutes.”

  “What about Roshan?”

  “What about him?”

  “They don’t want to talk to him again too?” After all, he’d been there.

  “Apparently not.”

  The men watched the trickle of students still wandering in from the parking lot. Both had dark eyes and dark hair, wide shoulders, and were no less than six feet. Crips white button-ups, dark gray jacket and pants. Their shoes gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

  Sam wrinkled his brow. “They’re dressed up awful nice for cops.”

  “They’re detectives; of course, they’re dressed nice.”

  “Yeah, but that nice?” Sam didn’t know a lot about clothes, but he was pretty sure cops, detectives or not, didn’t dress like mannequins in the window of a high-end fashion boutique at the mall.

  “Mr. Waters, it will take five minutes to answer their questions. Then you can go back to the dance, and they can get back to doing their job.” Mrs. Marsh inclined her head in the direction of the two men.

  “But—"

  “Mr. Waters.” She raised her eyebrows and peered at him down her beak-like nose.

  Sam exhaled a frustrated sigh. “Okay, I’ll talk to them.”

  “Thank you. Now, let’s not keep them waiting.” Mrs. Marsh gave Sam a clear hurry it up smile.

  Sam slipped out into the hall. Behind him, Mrs. Waters greeted another pair of students decked out in fancy clothes.

  The two men raised their gazes, eyes tracking Sam as approached. “So, you guys are with the Bedlem police department?”

  The taller of the two—and they were both already redwoods—said, “Yes, that is correct.” A light accent added an exotic flavor to his words. Definitely not the kind of accent found in the small town of Quinton.

  Sam stopped several feet away. He glanced back. Mrs. Marsh had her attention on arriving students, and arriving students had their attention on each other. And at least a half-dozen yards of space separated him from the entrance to the gym.

  “Mrs. Marsh said you needed to ask me some questions.”

  “We do.”

  “Okay, what do you need to know?”

  “Would you mind coming out to our car? It will be quieter out there and easier to fill out the paperwork.” The man jerked his chin at the secondary exit off to Sam’s right and past the head coach’s office.

  What kind of cop would ask that? Especially in this day and age? And what kind of paperwork did he expect Sam to fill out?

  Sam tossed out a lie for bait. “I thought we were going to use Coach Tanner’s office.” He added a shrug for authenticity. “At least, that’s what Mrs. Marsh said.”

  The two men exchanged looks, then the bigger one said, “We were, but my partner forgot the necessary documents.” He smiled, and everything about the expression seemed genuine except his eyes. They remained cold.

  Sam took a step back.

  The so-called detective’s expression hardened. “If you do not talk to us here, we will be forced to go to your home so we can talk there.” He flicked back the edge of his jacket, flashing a gun. “Now, you would not want to inconvenience your mother, four sisters, and father that way now would you?”

  Inconvenience?

  Or would they just hurt them?

  Sam didn’t need to ponder an answer because it stood right there with a gun peeking out from under his jacket.

  But there was one question burning through Sam’s head. Who were these people, and why did they want him?

  “Mr. Waters,” the man said it like an ultimatum. “With us, please.”

  The second so-called detective walked over to the side door and held it open. The first so-called detective, swept a hand, motioning for Sam to go. He shuffled toward the door. The side exit emptied out onto a stretch of grass beside the soccer field. An out-building shielded by a privacy fence created a wall blocking the view of people entering the front of the gym.

  And the angle of the parking lot almost guaranteed no one would see Sam escorted across the yard unless the driver happened to look in their rearview mirror. But with the field lights out, Sam was pretty sure no one would recognize him if they saw him at all.

  Tall bleachers offered more shadows among a maze of steel framework. The only place he stood a chance to lose the fake detectives, warn his parents, and not get other people shot.

  Night air blanketed Sam. Footsteps at his back grated the concrete path going silent as they hit the grass. Sam tipped his head enough to put both men in his periphery while extending his step just a hair, making a few more inches of space between them.

  Making sure he was well out of arm’s reach.

  Sam bolted, fleeing across the field right for the bleachers and away from the crowds. Deep curses sounded off behind him in time with heavy footfalls against the ground. The fake detective’s long legs ate up the distance. A few feet, probably more like inches, closing in. Sam was fast, but eventually, he’d tire out.

  He dove for the darkest shadows, his breaths puffing out in silver clouds. The once silent ache in his hip grew louder. Nerves in his lower back tingled into a sharp pinch. Fingertips brushed Sam’s back as he slipped between the legs of the bleachers. A deep boom of a larger body impacting the framework echoed through the scaffolding followed by a loud curse. Sam headed for the other side, weaving in and out of the forest of metal, stepping between crossing beams in an attempt to slow them down by forcing them to go around or squeeze through smaller spaces and risk getting stuck.

  The tiers overhead drew lower as Sam moved to the front of the bleachers, slicing any light from the parking lot where it escaped through the narrow gaps.

  He crouched, and the larger figures of the two men fought their way through the maze.

  Sam took his cell phone out of his pocket. If he woke it up to call his parents, the light would give away his location.

  But he had to warn them because he knew the fake detectives would make good on their word.

  Sam tucked the phone into the flap of his jacket, feeling his way around the edge to the home button.

  The smallest line of glow edged the case where he shielded it under the fabric. He risked a quick look and opened the contact window.

  A beefy hand shot through the gap in the seats behind Sam and tangled in his jacket. He yelled in surprise, pulling away. The phone hit the ground, the glow of the screen threw up highlights on the massive arm and twisted expression of the man crammed against the side of the bleachers hard enough to crush his cheek to the framework in order to extend his reach.

  Shouts came from the direction of the other man who now wove his way toward Sam. And he wasn’t alone.

  Three men now? Were there more?

  He yanked, and the seams of his jacket popped. The man twisted his grip, tightening the arms of Sam’s suit. He braced a heel against one of the beams, using it for leverage. The collar tore free, and Sam dove to the ground, crawling on hands and knees through the narrowest part of the bleachers. Wet earth and grass stuck to Sam’s fingers. Rocks bit into his knees. Feet stomped the line of seats overhead. He dropped to the ground just in time to avoid another grab from a new man on the outside.

  The two men clamoring through the scaffolding closed in, and Sam belly-crawled between an X of steel bars, reaching a narrow path where the two sets of bleachers met. He got to
his feet and hurried down the opening—in a side-step—barely narrow enough for his thin body to squeeze through.

  Forcing them to change directions slowed them down until the distance between the bracing widened. But Sam had enough of a head start he could outrun them across the green space, past the closed concession stand then lose them in the woods. A dozen trails cut through the area, and Sam knew all of them by heart.

  The line of polls ended, and Sam took up a run, crossing under the shadows of the outbuilding.

  Pain blitzed across Sam’s face, knocking him back and onto his bad arm. The cast protected his bone, but his healing shoulder screamed from the impact against the ground.

  Sam rolled over.

  Darkness painted the woman in grays. She was tall, elegant with pale hair. The gun in her hand an ebony cutout.

  “Don’t make me shoot you, Sam.” Her voice had the same accent as the men.

  Heavy breaths broke up the moment of quiet. The three men closed in, and Sam was jerked to his feet by one of them. Fingers dug into his arms, and he gritted his teeth.

  “Don’t break him, Daniel.” She lowered her weapon. “At least not without Marcel watching.”

  10

  Marcel sat in the large chair against the far wall of the Bedroom.

  The front door opened. Rubber soles squeaked against tile. The door shut again, leaving behind quick breaths and shuffling clothes.

  The hardwood floor sighed with footsteps.

  Green tea soap circulated into the room on eddies of air. But there wasn’t enough soap in the world, not enough hot water in existence capable of washing away the stench of fear.

  Marcel inhaled, chest expanding until the seams of his button-up strained. Anger spiced Ben’s scent.

  The footsteps stopped. A shadow stretched across the floor.

  Marcel didn’t look up when he said, “Remain in the living room, Ben. Jacob, shut the door.”

  One second, two seconds, three.

  Their respirations paused for the same length of time as it took for Jacob to cross the threshold.

  The faintest squeak followed the door as it shut.

  Marcel raised his gaze.

  Jacob lifted his chin, but his hands weren’t as confident, and his fingers tangled together.

  “Closer.”

  Jacob shuffled forward.

  “Stop.”

  He rocked back on his heels, taking back the extra half-step.

  “Remove your shirt.”

  He fumbled with the hem before peeling it from his body. Faint marks colored his neck, some a shade of blue, others pink.

  Jacob reached for the button of his pants.

  Marcel stood, clearing the distance between them.

  Jacob jerked his hands back to his side.

  Crimson rose up in his cheeks, but not the kind of blush that came with being aroused.

  Marcel circled Jacob. His hair close to his neck damp, small dark moles, a tiny spot of razor burn just below his ear. The shower he’d taken had removed a lot but it couldn’t erase the tooth mark dimpling his ear, the faint scratches peeking out of the waist of his jeans.

  And the light in the man’s eyes. Knowing and defiant.

  “Is there something you want to say?” Marcel completed his circle, stopping in front of Jacob.

  “You left.” For a moment, the guilt faltered under anger.

  “For a while.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Jacob almost dropped his gaze. The muscles along his jaw jumped.

  “The reason for my absence was not important.” Marcel ran his thumb along Jacob’s chin close to his lips, along his cheek. The scars on his hand rasping against perfect skin. “Now, what do you really want to say?”

  The pulse beating along the column of Jacob’s throat quickened. “Ben didn’t know. I didn’t tell him.”

  No, he did not. A truth Jacob carried in tense lines running down his arms.

  “We had an agreement, Jacob.” Marcel caressed Jacob’s shoulder, down his arm, stopping at the light finger-shaped bruises stamped on his bicep.

  “You told me to teach him what you expected.” The edge Jacob spoke with on the phone returned.

  “Say the words, Jacob. I will not ask you again.”

  “I don’t—”

  Marcel seized Jacob by the throat and dug his thumb into the soft spot under Jacob’s ear. His eyes went wide, and his knees folded. He hit the floor with enough force to make him grunt.

  “I am waiting.” Marcel eased his hold.

  The strain to force out the words made the tendons on Jacob’s neck stand out. “That life was a gift. My life was your gift to me.”

  “What else?” He petted Jacob, pushing back the locks of his dark hair. “What else did I tell you?”

  Jacob clenched his eyes shut.

  “Say the words, Jacob.”

  “My loyalty.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “My body was yours. I obeyed you. I couldn’t be with anyone else.”

  Marcel stepped back, leaving Jacob on his knees.

  “And if you were not loyal?”

  “You’d take back what was yours.” Jacob’s voice cracked, but there wasn’t a single tear.

  In the mountains, the shift from child to killer came as quiet as it had swift. Sometimes between sleeping, waking, fighting their way up a sheer rock wall, or surviving a night in the snow.

  When had Jacob shifted from who he’d been to who he was now? The first night at the hospital? The days after, when Marcel wasn’t there? Or wrapped in darkness covered in sweat and cum waiting for his breathing to slow.

  Waiting for sleep?

  The exact moment wasn’t important, only the occurrence.

  Marcel lifted Jacob’s chin, forcing the man to look at him. The memories of his past still lingered, but they no longer overshadowed him, choking out his will to survive.

  They no longer chained him to his past.

  The only question now was he strong enough to live?

  “And yet, knowing this, you defied me.”

  Oh, how the fire burned in Jacob’s eyes. Marcel smiled. Some men were never graced with the spark. Rarer still, to regain it after it was taken from them. Whether Jacob had been born with such heat, Marcel didn’t know.

  But he held it now.

  “I’m waiting, Jacob.”

  “I don’t—”

  Marcel cocked his head.

  Jacob watched him, the fight with his emotions playing out as shadows of confusion in his eyes. “I didn’t want it to stop.”

  Marcel tipped his head the other way, letting the weight of his stare press down on Jacob.

  “You didn’t want what to stop?”

  “What I have with him.” Jacob inhaled a watery breath.

  “And what is it you have with Ben Corbin? Tell me. Explain it to me. Convince me, and maybe I will let you keep what I have gifted to you. This time.” Because there was no need for Jacob to keep what he couldn’t wield.

  Again Jacob watched him, eyes searching as if the answer was written on Marcel’s face. It wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. The only place it would be found was in Jacob.

  “Choice?”

  “Continue.”

  “Ben didn’t expect anything of me. He didn’t ask anything of me. He let me…” Jacob licked his lips. “I was happy.” And Jacob said it like a realization. “I could be me. I don’t remember the last time I got to do that. If I ever got to do that.”

  “You told him what happened that day, but you have never told me.”

  Jacob’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he didn’t take it from me. It’s still mine. My secret.”

  “And you do not think he will tell? That he will use it to remind you what you were?” Marcel pressed the length of his leg against Jacob’s body.

  Jacob slowly blinked. A tear gathered in the corner of his eye. “No.”

  “Why? Because h
e is sorry?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you believe him.” Marcel made it a statement.

  “Yes.”

  “You trust him.” Another statement.

  A line creased the space between Jacob’s eyebrows. “I trust myself.”

  It was a start.

  A very promising start.

  The unnatural silence built a wall between Ben and the inside of the Bedroom, giving no hint of what happened inside.

  Ben tilted his head, putting his ear closer to the door. A muted buzz slipped through the barrier, but he couldn’t be sure if the sound was the remnants of Marcel’s voice or his imagination.

  The grandfather clock on the wall ticked. The fridge in the kitchen clicked on then off.

  The buzz definitely came from the inside. A voice, maybe? And if so, was it Marcel? Was it Jacob? Or both?

  Were they talking? Or were they doing something else?

  The rush of anger fevering Ben’s cheeks brought tears to his eyes, but it didn’t stop him from getting hard.

  He cursed, more himself than Marcel.

  How could Ben even find the idea arousing? But he knew. He knew because he’d seen it. The way Jacob melted in Marcel’s hands. How he surrendered. How Marcel controlled him with just a look.

  Didn’t Marcel do the same to Ben?

  No. He didn’t feel any attraction to Marcel.

  But what if it wasn’t attraction? What if it was whatever allowed an old man to move like a ghost, have far more strength than he should at his age, and to know what secrets a person held?

  It had to be. It could only be.

  Jacob swore Marcel was human. And Ben knew he was right. Yet some small part of him feared Marcel proved the existence of hell because he commanded it.

  An electronic trill broke the silence, and Ben stumbled away from the door. His hip caught the decorative table next to the wall, and his heel snagged the leg. He turned in time to keep his elbow from hitting the vase on top but lost his balance.

  The impact against the floor rode up his knees. A sting laced his tongue, and copper flavored his saliva.

  The door to the Bedroom remained closed. More than likely, whatever kept Ben from being able to hear what went on inside also kept the sound from the living room, out.