Chapter Twelve
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
—Maya Angelou
F reezing rain trickled down the neck of Fisher’s shirt, adding to his cold dead heart.
Taking a job out of state had been just the ticket.
Now if he could just remember what the fuck had sent him running in the first place, he’d be golden.
Did it matter?
Not really. Killing was his goal. Murder was easy. Even crouched in the dense forest of Oregon beneath the onslaught of rain wasn’t a hardship.
He recalled when Justice had asked him what school he’d gone to and he hadn’t answered.
There was a reason for it. He honestly didn’t remember.
Memories came and went.
The doctor had told him once that not remembering stemmed from childhood trauma. As a little boy, he had been a master at blocking out anything related to previous years.
He didn’t do it consciously. He wanted to remember only he couldn’t until his mind let him.
The psychiatrist he’d seen called it trauma avoidance. They titled it cPTSD blackouts. It was his way of coping, a way of escaping when something happened that was too difficult to handle.
The technical term was dissociation from reality.
He called it insane. He was fucked up and had been since childhood.
Sure, the memories would come back eventually, but he had to wait for clarity. The doctors said when he stayed calm and reduced his stress, everything would fall back into place.
Fuck that.
He liked that he forgot the bad stuff. It helped him live.
A door opened in the distance and Fisher watched as Murphy Blackwell stepped outside of the small, dark brown cabin.
The sexual predator was on the FBI’s list. Blackwell wore a heavy waterproof breaker the color of shit brown along with a pair of waders. It was a long walk to the kill shack the fucker kept deep in the wilderness at the edge of the property.
Victims were snatched from a distant town or city and here was where they lived out their last days—terrified, hurting, and alone.
Jobs like this always reminded him of what he could remember of his own childhood.
But fuck it. He rubbed at the pain in his chest. After he took down Blackwell, the horror of his childhood would return to its neat little box tucked into his brain.
Perhaps someday the echoes of his past would fade completely.
He could only hope.
But he wasn’t going to bet on it.
Last night, he had carved out the trail through the trees that ran parallel to the mud-ridden path Blackwell took and when Blackwell headed off down the muddy path, Fisher slipped through the undergrowth.
With soaked leaves beneath his black hiking boots, he walked with ease, knowing the rain would drown out anything else.
Blackwell opened the padlock to the small wooden building that was roughly the size of the cabin down below—small yet big enough to work comfortably.
Fisher lifted the sledgehammer he’d placed nearby last night and moved until he was off to the side of the open doorway.
He smiled at the bellow Blackwell made. The rage-filled sound echoed from within when the man realized that the girl he’d brought back a few nights ago was not in her chains.
The squelching and stomping of the predator’s waders grew closer to the door.
It was a matter of timing and Fisher had that in spades.
He cocked back the sledgehammer and when Blackwell stepped out with a hurried stride, Fisher swung.
Blackwell grunted beneath the impact and stumbled.
Fisher swung again. Taking out the man’s knee. The howl of pain was music to his ears. Blackwell flipped onto his stomach and crawled back into the kill shack.
Fisher calmly walked after the fucker and kicked the door shut. Taking his time, he lit a few of the oil lamps he’d scoped out when he’d freed the girl.
The soft glow lit up the room.
“Who the fuck are you?” Blackwell cried, rolling to his back and clutching at his knee.
“Who I am is not important. Who you are, on the other hand, is.” Fisher hefted the heavy hammer over one shoulder and walked over to a large workbench where Blackwell kept his tools.
“You’ve got the wrong guy. I’m innocent.” Blackwell managed to pull himself up to sit against the wall.
Blood poured from the man’s leg, some dripped from his mouth. Fisher was sure he’d cracked ribs with the first blow, but Blackwell was a trooper and only panted through the pain.
Fisher spun, his movements light, and he felt like a dancer of death.
He leaped across to the perp in seconds and swung the hammer. He broke Blackwell’s arm beyond repair. While the fucker howled, Fisher destroyed both of the man’s hands, one right after the other.
“You used those to touch them?” Fisher sneered.
Blackwell gagged and gasped, breathing hard and unable to stop the screams from ripping out of his throat.
They were music to Fisher’s ears. They played a tune of endings.
The final scene of a sickening movie.
The closing of an FBI file.
The termination of one more sick fuck in the world.
Death was too good for Blackwell. The fucker had to suffer.
Just like he had suffered through endless agony.
You’re weak, you always have been.
That fucking voice from his past echoed in his head and this time when the blackout hit, Fisher was ready for it.
The world grayed out. If asked, he would have said that he became a block of ice, but maybe that wasn’t accurate because there was anger and ice and rage and they all seemed to go together.
Sometime later…Fisher came to his senses when his ass hit the cold floor of the kill shack.
Blinking away the fog, he wiped his sleeve over his face. The masked hood that he wore shifted and he felt wetness soaking through.
Gazing around, he saw a pile of something.
It took a moment for it to register.
The pile was Blackwell. The fucker was a mushy mess of flesh, bones, and blood. Tossing the sledgehammer away, Fisher rolled to his feet.
Stumbling from the building, he made his way to a small creek he’d found the day before and it was there that he dipped his gloved hands and rinsed them until the water ran clean. He dunked his head, mask and all, into the water to get as much blood and brains out of the material.
Tempted to remove his hooded mask, he decided against it, not wanting to risk exposure. There would be time enough for that before he reached his nondescript vehicle.
Arriving at the roadside motel he’d rented, Fisher noticed the curtains of the room he’d rented were open.
He knew for a fact that he’d closed them before leaving.
Could it be housekeeping?
Maybe.
Doubtful.
Good thing he’d buried his bloody clothing in the woods after changing at his vehicle. He still had blood in places that only a shower could remove.
Fisher pulled out his nine-millimeter with its silencer twisted on. Approaching the door, he flipped the key reader card against the lock and when it clicked open, he kicked the door wide before dodging back out of sight.
“Fisher, it’s me,” Rogue called from within the room.
Damn it. He shoved his gun away and stepped inside. Making his way to the washroom, he stripped out of his clothes. Untying his long hair, he turned on the shower. When the water was hot, he stepped beneath the blast.
He’d have time to talk with his best friend after he washed the grime from his body, hair, and mind.
“I’m ordering food,” Rogue yelled. “Chicken and fries, if you don’t have a preference.”
“Get pizza,” he yelled back, dumping shampoo in his palm and massaging it into his long, waist-length hair. It was a bitch to dry, but he couldn’t go another second without scrubbing the strands clean.
By the time he was done with his shower and had his hair damp-dried, the pizza had already been delivered. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he reentered the room and pulled on clean clothes.
“What are you doing here?” Fisher shot Rogue a quick glance.
“What are you doing here?” Rogue volleyed back.
Fisher snagged a piece of pepperoni pie and took a bite. “Helping the FBI,” he said around a mouthful.
“With or without their knowledge?”
“What does that matter? They weren’t getting shit done.”
“There’s plenty of jobs in California.”
Fisher shrugged and finished the slice before taking another. He sank onto the opposite queen bed from Rogue and ate.
“Do you remember coming here?”
“I flew.”
“Why did you fly?”
“Can’t remember,” he said, taking another big bite. What he did remember was having to check his weapons before boarding the plane. Most of the flight was a blur so he couldn’t explain more than that.
Rogue got it. His friend knew about his cPTSD and that was only because they both suffered from it. Although Rogue’s manifested in different ways.
Consuming his own food, Rogue was quiet for a moment while they both ate.
“Do you know?” Fisher eyed his friend.
“Do I know what?” Rogue avoided his eyes while munching a large piece of the pie.
“Did I have another blackout?” Fisher probed.
“I don’t know.” Rogue rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head before eating. The man’s eyes weren’t looking at him.
That was a sign.
Rogue was lying, but the man had done that before. Leaving out the truth to protect him.
Fisher didn’t mind.
He would rather remember in his own time. Plus, his therapist told him it was better not to force the memories and let them come back naturally.
“It’s not anything important, is it?” He frowned at Rogue’s continued silence.
His friend shook his head. “No. But we do need to get back to California.”
That was fine by him, he’d come here to do the job he needed to do.
Time to go home.