Chapter 11 #2
“You’re the worst kind of filth.” Tears pool in his eyes, carving streaks down his dusty cheeks.
“Animal abusers and child abusers. You all belong in hell, and you’ll be there soon.
” I lean over his face so he can see my mask up close, the wolf that embodies the predator within me.
“But make no mistake, Daryl, you won’t die quickly tonight.
Though by the time I’m through, you’ll wish you had. ”
“Please.”
I deliver a second blow to his other cheek. Bone breaks with a sound that bounces off every surface down here. Two yellow teeth shoot from his lips, skittering across the basement floor like tiny, grotesque dice.
“I said, shut the fuck up. I’m not here to listen to your apologies, pleas, or promises that it will never happen again. Pieces of shit like you don’t change and will always take out your anger and hate on those smaller and weaker than you.”
“But, I don’t—”
“Do you ever fucking listen? Shut. The Fuck. Up.”
Uncontrollable sobs rack his body as I step over to the workbench and lift my favorite knife. Its serrated edge grabs on and grips not only the flesh it slices but also the tissue, organs, and blood vessels beneath, extracting the maximum amount of pain.
My pulse thunders in my ears.
The blade glints as I press it to his skin and carve a slow arc through flesh and muscle.
He screams, a chorus of agony that sets my heart racing faster.
I’m struck by how fantastic the acoustics are in here.
The space swallows and amplifies every note of agony.
No wonder Jeremiah Morrison picked this place for his kill room.
I think about what he did to them. Those girls. The ones who never made it home. My teeth grind together as the thought burns through me. They didn’t deserve to die that way. The state executed him for his crimes, but lethal injection was far too easy. I wish I could have gotten my hands on him.
Blood wells around the fresh cuts. The thick, cloying scent assaults my nose. By the time I’m through carving into Rawlings’ chest, Buddy’s name is emblazoned across his skin like a gushing bloody tattoo. His voice is raspy and raw, and uncontrollable twitches seize his body.
“Now, let’s talk about Buddy.” My voice is soft.
Dangerous. “Remember him?” Images from my past flash in the back of my mind—the first death I witnessed—and a wave of nausea rolls over me.
“Two years old. A shepherd mix. First, you starved him. Then you beat him with a tire iron, fracturing his skull and breaking his back legs.”
I plunge the blade into his stomach, avoiding any vital organs, for now, and stride back to the bench.
His scream of pain follows me. I lift the tire iron, test its balance, and then step forward.
Rawlings’ eyes widen, recognition flickering before his expression breaks. My lips curve into a menacing smile.
I pause above his right shin before bringing the iron down.
Bone shatters with a wet, satisfying crunch.
He strains against the restraints, an agonizing howl of pain tearing from his lips.
I raise the iron again—above his left leg this time—and bring it down with a sickening thud.
Another splintering fracture. Another scream of agony.
Fury surges through me. Over and over, the tire iron cracks bones, a sound that punctuates my hard recounting of Buddy’s injuries.
Blood and bits of flesh splatter on my clothes and mask. By the time I’m done, I’m drenched in it, clinging to me like a second skin. My breath is ragged, and sweat pours off me, dripping onto the table, mixing with the blood on the cool metal.
Rawlings’ legs are a gruesome mess of mangled bone, muscle, and sinew. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and center myself again as stifled sobs break the silence.
“Luna nursed him back to health.” My voice softens at the thought of her, an angel in this hellish world. “Saved his life and found him a loving home.”
I shake off thoughts of her. Her light has no place here. Even thinking of her in here is blasphemous.
But a lightbulb goes on.
I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Cade. He’s upstairs in my office, waiting for me to finish, but this is easier.
“Done already? That was quick.”
The sight of me covered head to toe in blood doesn’t even faze him.
“No, I’m just getting started, but you can leave. I’ll dispose of him myself.”
“Why?” He looks confused. “I’m here.”
“Because I plan to do something special with this fucker’s body.”
“Damien—”
“Go home, Cade. I’ve got this.”
I hang up. Let him stew. He’ll be fucking pissed, but I’ll deal with that tomorrow.
My decision feels right, and a calm spreads through my limbs as I turn back to Rawlings. He’s barely coherent now, his screams having died down to whimpers.
I grab the pliers, clamping onto one of his yellowed teeth, and yank. He screams as the root tears free, blood pouring from the gap. I drop the tooth, and the ping as it connects with the floor brings a smile to my lips.
“One down. So many more to go.”
I extract each tooth, his screams rising and falling like tidal waves. The sound is so beautiful, a testament to his pain, it makes me shiver with satisfaction. Blood streams from his mouth, onto the table, and down his throat, gagging him.
I lose track of time, and it’s almost 3 AM when I glance at my watch. Morning’s first light will be here soon, and I’m running out of time. I’ll have to just wrap his body and deal with cleaning the basement later.
I step back to admire my handiwork. Rawlings’ body is unrecognizable as he clings to life. I was careful not to smash his face. I need him to be identified, after all. With one hand, I force his eyelids open. I lean down to meet his glassy stare. He trembles, silent and broken.
My mask comes off. His pupils dilate in helpless terror. I raise my blade high as I prepare to shove it into his eye.
“Remember my face, Rawlings. Because I’ll find you in hell again someday.”
I bring the knife down, driving it into the socket with a final, merciless plunge.
It’s almost morning when I pull up in front of Luna’s house. The pre-dawn light paints the landscape in ethereal shades of gray and silver.
Everything is quiet. The kind of quiet that holds its breath. I sit for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel, and let the anticipation build. Luna is sleeping in that house, curled up in her bed. She works so hard. She deserves a peaceful sleep.
For now.
She needs to see that the creatures she saves have a guardian beyond her. This is the only way I can show her.
I step out of the truck. My eyes scan the treeline, cataloging the positions of her wildlife cameras. None point toward the driveway. Luna’s focus is on protecting her animals, not monitoring her own front door. Still, I’ll need to loop back and scrub any footage before I leave.
I also have micro-cameras to install in and around the main sanctuary buildings so I can watch her in her environment. I’ll eventually get them in the house, but she spends most of her time in the other buildings. It’s more important that I start there.
I heft Rawlings’ dead body over my shoulder. The plastic crinkles. His dead weight settles against my spine. Heavy. Heavier than he was alive.
This is for you, Luna. This is what happens to monsters who hurt what you love.
I stride toward the porch, the gravel crunching beneath my boots.
Everything about this place radiates her gentle spirit.
The carefully tended flower beds, the weathered birdhouses hanging from tree branches, and the hand-painted signs on all the buildings.
She’s built something pure here. Something worth protecting.
I climb the five wooden steps of her porch. Movement in the front window catches my eye, and I pause. Once again, her wolf watches me through the glass. His eyes lock with mine across the darkness, and something passes between us. Recognition.
Wolf to Wolfe.
Again, he doesn’t howl or alert Luna to my presence. He only growls. Loud enough to carry through the glass, but quiet enough not to wake her. His tail is still, neither wagging nor bristling. We understand each other, Shadow and I.
We both know what it means to claim someone as ours, to stand between them and the world.
We both understand that protection sometimes demands blood.
It’s about being willing to turn violent when the moment calls for it, keeping that capacity for destruction ready and sharp.
We both guard what belongs to us, and we won’t hesitate when the time comes to prove it.
“Good boy.”
He blinks. His gaze changes, and the wildness dims. What’s left behind is trust, or close enough to it that the difference doesn’t matter right now.
I drop Rawlings’ plastic-wrapped body at the top of the stairs, positioning him so she’ll see him as soon as she opens the door.
Not hidden, but presented.
Like the gift he is.
On top of his corpse, I lay a Rocky Mountain Columbine, Colorado’s state flower, its velvety purple petals shimmering under the overhead porch light. Something pure and beautiful to contrast with the ugliness of what Rawlings represented.
I head toward the sanctuary buildings. The micro-cameras in my jacket pocket feel like tiny promises of connection, ways to stay close to Luna even when I can’t be here.
The main building sits about ten yards to the right of the house.
Its wooden exterior, like all the other buildings, is well-maintained.
Luna’s touch is everywhere—in the careful repair work, the fresh coat of stain on the trim, and the small wind chimes that hang silent in the still air.
I step up to the front entrance’s porch, where she keeps a spare key hidden beneath a ceramic garden gnome.
She used it when she returned from her hike the other morning.
So trusting, my little doe. So na?ve about the dangers that lurk in the woods.