CHAPTER 18 SUFFER THE CHILDREN
The deputy guided Cole through the depths of the old machinery factory, a vast, decaying relic of industrial times with a mixture of rot, rust, and dampness thick in the musty air.
Along the corridors, plaster crumbled off the walls, exposing brick and concrete beneath.
They passed large rooms containing heavy machinery that, once essential, now stood silent and still, caked in rust and cobwebs, with twisted metal and debris scattered across the floors.
Each step sent dust swirling into the air as they walked across broken glass, stray pieces of metal, and rusted, forgotten tools.
Even in the shadows, Cole noticed the muted tones: the gray of concrete, the brown of aged wood, and the reddish-brown of rust. A faint, acrid smell of oxidizing iron and steel lingered in the air, a metallic scent of decay.
Beneath the stronger odors, there was an almost minty scent that Cole couldn’t identify, but it made him want to scrub his nostrils.
They climbed a set of rusted, metal stairs to the upper floor and walked along a creaking catwalk that Cole didn’t entirely trust to hold their weight.
“Is Roland your real name?” Cole asked. “Or was that fake, too?”
The man paused and turned around. “My name is Byrne.”
“Like… burn in hell?” Cole muttered.
“Yes.” The man smiled coldly. “But not spelled that way.” He continued along the catwalk a few more feet, then stopped at a closed door. He motioned for Cole to move forward and opened the door, guiding him inside.
“Son.” The Mangler stood behind a worn wooden desk that had lost its varnish. The office was bleak, with faded and cracked leather furniture. The man held a bottle of scotch in his right hand. “You came.” As he set up three tumblers, he poured scotch into each one. “I’m glad.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Cole mumbled. As before that night, he immediately felt like a scared kid again in his dad’s presence.
Daniel Pruett shrugged and slid a tumbler across the desk to Cole. “Drink up.” His smile was anything but cheerful. “You’re going to need it.”
Cole ignored the glass. “Whatever you want from me,” he said quietly, trying to steady the tremor in his voice. “I’ll give it to you… if you let Gabe and the kids go.”
“Who says they’re still alive?” he murmured, sipping his drink. “Any of them?”
“Because as long as they’re alive, you can control me.” Cole sniffed. “Because you know I’ll do anything to keep them alive.”
Daniel nodded. “True.” He licked scotch off his lips. “How did your friends enjoy the gift I left them at the park?” He seemed eager to hear the answer.
The memory of that horror scene haunted Cole. “I think you know.”
“Tell me.” Daniel moved around the desk and leaned against the front, sipping his drink. “Tell it to me like a scary story, with all the grisly details.” He grinned as he raised the glass to his lips again.
Cole looked at him, hating him more than he ever thought he could hate another human being. Then again, this was no human being. “No,” he whispered. “I’m not going to tell you. What you did to them was beyond evil. I won’t pick apart their pain and suffering for you to gloat over.”
The man shrugged and set his glass down on the desk. “Fair enough.” He passed the third glass to Byrne and again offered the other tumbler to Cole. “I really think you’re going to need this.”
A stiff drink wouldn't do much good at this point. “No thanks,” he mumbled.
“Suit yourself.” Daniel picked up the glass and drained it in one swallow. He wiped his mouth and smiled. “No point delaying the inevitable, hm?” He nodded toward the door. “Shall we?”
Byrne grabbed Cole’s arm and turned him toward the door, pushing him ahead. The man hadn’t spoken a word to Daniel since they entered the office. Based on their conversation in the car, Cole sensed deep bitterness and resentment in the deputy toward his dad.
Because of me.
Cole didn’t give two shits about his “brother’s” petty sibling rivalry.
The man blamed Cole for things that were beyond his control.
He hadn’t asked to be born as the son of a serial killer.
It wasn’t his fault that their psychopathic father favored him over his brother.
He hadn’t asked for that favor , and he sure as fuck didn’t want it.
It shocked him to discover that he was his dad’s favorite.
As a kid, he wondered if his dad hated him.
The man certainly hadn’t shown him any favor—even while training him.
···
The day after his dad fed the woman’s body to the pigs, he came home with the “treat” he’d mentioned during breakfast. With the Bronco backed into the rear entrance of the barn, he opened the back of the vehicle, revealing a black body bag with a squirming “guest” inside.
Muffled cries pressed through the thick bag; shrill, panicked whimpers.
Henry shook his head, taking a few steps back. The person inside didn’t seem as big as the woman from before, and the muffled cries sounded… male. Not adult male, but young… like Henry.
His dad heaved the bag over his shoulder while the captive wriggled and jerked, trying to scream through their gag.
Henry stood by the truck, tears running down his face, as his dad walked over to the cellar door, dumped the body on the barn floor with a heavy thud, and removed the padlock.
Down on one knee, he looked at Henry. “What’re you waiting for, boy? Get over here.”
Too scared to defy his dad, Henry walked forward, his legs shaking badly and stomach twisting into knots, making him sick.
His dad opened the cellar door, picked up the squirming bag, and carried his victim down into the cellar.
Henry hesitated at the top of the stairs, then followed his dad, pulling the door closed after him.
At the bottom of the steps, Henry froze in place, his hands clenched so tight his arms ached.
A painful numbness spread through his head as his dad dumped his cargo on the floor and unzipped the bag.
Henry gasped, his fists cramming against his mouth.
The boy inside the bag was only thirteen or fourteen—and looked like Ezra.
Too much so that his dad surely saw it, too.
Is that why he grabbed this boy? Because he looked like Ezra?
Henry’s chin trembled as he shoved his fists harder against his mouth, trying to choke back his sobs.
His dad dragged the boy out of the bag and laid him on the table, which was still tacky with the woman’s blood.
His hands were bound in rope, and thick tape covered his mouth.
The boy’s eyes bulged in his head, darting frantically around the cellar until he locked on Henry.
He screamed at Henry for help, his words muffled behind the tape.
Tears and snot smeared his face, his throat straining with his silenced screams.
“Calm down, now,” his dad murmured while he casually caught the boy’s flailing feet and tied them to the corners of the table.
The kid twisted and thrashed, trying to fight his kidnapper with his tied hands.
When he managed to scratch Daniel’s face, the man grabbed the boy’s throat and slammed him down on his back, squeezing until the kid’s face and neck turned red. “I said, calm down.”
The boy stopped resisting and lay in a paralyzed panic, his chest heaving and nostrils flaring as tears streamed down into his ears.
Sobs rattled his throat, his terrified eyes turning to Henry again.
Henry stared back, as frightened as the kid.
His breath stuttered against his fists—tears, snot, and saliva wetting his knuckles.
When his dad had the kid fully restrained, his hands tied above his head, he removed the tape. The boy immediately cried out, “Please let me go! Please! Please! I wanna go home! Please let me go home! Please!” He dissolved into a fit of broken, uncontrollable sobs.
Henry was shaking and crying, seeing Ezra on that table—wondering if he had been on that table. When his dad motioned to him, Henry backed up against the partition between the cellar and the stairs, shaking his head, sobs gagging him.
“Boy.” His dad cocked his head, his face stern. He snapped his fingers.
Henry choked on his cries as he walked forward, his steps small and unsteady. He glanced at the boy who was openly crying and watching Henry.
“Please help me,” he sobbed. “Please. I wanna go home… I want my mom and dad… please let me go home… please… please…”
Henry didn’t realize he’d stopped moving—standing in place, crying—until his dad grabbed his arm and yanked him closer. “No…” Henry whimpered. “Please, Dad… don’t…”
His dad backhanded him, knocking him off balance. Henry would have dropped to the floor if his dad hadn’t still been holding his arm. “Stop your fucking whining. I got him specially for you, be grateful. He even kind of looks like Ezra. That should make it easier.”
Easier? His looking like Ezra would make it easier? How?!
Henry and the boy gasped in terror when Henry’s dad picked up a pair of large shears. Daniel ignored them both as he went about cutting the jeans and T-shirt off the boy’s body, then sliced through his underwear and pulled them loose, leaving the panicked boy naked on the table.
His dad stepped back. “He’s all yours. You know what to do.”
“Wh-What?” Henry breathed harder. “I-I don’t… I can’t…”
“You can,” his dad insisted. “You like dick. Touch him, get yourself worked up, then go to it. I know you’ve never done it before, but it isn’t rocket science.
You just put it in and pound the hole, the harder the better.
Make him scream, it’s like a drug. Before long, you’ll be addicted to those screams.”
Henry stared at his dad in horror; how did he go to work as Sheriff and fool everyone into thinking he was sane… when he so clearly wasn’t.
“I-I can’t, Dad,” Henry choked. “Please don’t make me… please don’t…” Henry prepared for another strike of his dad’s hand, but it didn’t come. Even so, his dad wasn’t happy.
The man picked up a large blade, and the boy on the table broke into another fit of cries and screams, thrashing against his restraints.
“No, Dad… don’t…” Henry shook his head, tears flooding his face.
“I’m not.” Daniel jerked him against the table and shoved the knife into his hands, clamping his larger hand around his. “You are.”
“No, Dad, no!” Henry cried out. The boy writhed and bucked against the table, screaming for help.
“If you’re not going to fuck him,” his dad growled. “You’re at least going to kill him.”
The restrained kid thrashed like he was having a seizure, the panic rolling his eyes into his head as he gagged on his own screams, saliva foaming from the corners of his mouth.
“Do it now!” his dad snapped and squeezed Henry’s hands around the knife handle so hard his knuckles cracked—and stabbed the blade into the kid’s heaving stomach.
Henry and the boy screamed in unison. His dad forced him to drag the blade up the kid’s stomach, tearing open his flesh, ripping into his guts.
The boy gagged and choked, only the whites of his eyes showing now.
His body convulsed and arched away from the table as blood and guts poured out of him, drenching Henry.
Henry was screaming, trying to tear free and let go of the knife, but his dad clamped his hands on the slippery handle.
When he finally released him, Henry fell to the floor in a pool of the boy’s blood, shaking and wailing.
He scooted frantically away from the table, hands and shoes slipping in the blood.
His dad walked over and squatted down as Henry crammed bloody fists into his mouth, muffling his screams, his eyes wide and blank, his breath surging through his nostrils.
“Finish him.” His dad dropped the knife on the floor beside Henry and stood. “Then I’ll show you how to clean up the mess.”
The man walked up the stairs and left the cellar.
Henry couldn’t move, his breath hissing against his bloody fists, as the boy twitched with life, watery gasps hitching in his throat. He was suffering… like the woman last night.
Feeling his soul drain from his body, Henry crawled to his feet and picked up the knife. He saw nothing and felt nothing as he ended the boy’s suffering, releasing him from the nightmare… while Henry’s was only just beginning.