Chapter 27 Cooper
Cooper
The snowflakes land gently against the neon sign of the bar, a few bearded men are smoking outside; the cigarette fumes poisoning the air and their lungs.
It's Christmas Eve and the town is sleepy from the profound darkness of the night.
"Reed," I pause, slinking through the thoughts of my brain. "Why did you bring me back to Brainerd? I don't want to see my parents for Christmas."
He chuckles, offering me a sly grin. "Don't worry, sweetheart. We aren't here for a family reunion."
"Then what are we here for?"
He nods toward the bar, his eyes glinting with a dark, festive light.
"We're here for his Christmas Eve. Bernard Meyer.
He got out on parole five weeks ago. Good behavior bullshit.
" Reed turns to me, his smile sharp enough to flay the skin from my neck.
"I've been following his case. It's only a matter of time before he kills somebody else. "
My vision blurs. The snowy parking lot, the muffled silence of the men's chatter, the ghost of my brother haunts every inch of my memory in this god-forsaken town.
"He's in there," Reed says, his voice a low growl. "Right now. Probably getting shitfaced. Talking about how he shouldn't have gone to prison. That he made one little mistake. That anyone could have ended up in that situation."
I gasp, the air groaning against my trachea. I look at the bar, then back at Reed, my protector, my monster, my lover. He didn't bring me here to reopen my old wounds. He brought me back to cauterize one.
"This… this is my present?" I whisper, my heart pounding against my ribs, not with fear, but with a thrilling, unmistakable joy.
Reed's right hand rises, brushing my cheek.
"No, my love," he corrects. "The present is closure.
The present is watching the light leave the eyes of a man who shattered your world.
The present is knowing on the night that he was meant to be celebrating a second chance, he met his final judgement.
Delivered by the brother of the boy he killed. "
He leans in, his forehead resting against mine, our breath mixing in the air.
"Merry Christmas, Cooper," he murmurs. "Let's go give your brother the only gift that ever truly matters. Justice, wrapped in a bow of steaming entrails."
God, I love this man so much.
He's thoughtful and considerate.
He didn't just remember a name I mentioned once in a moment of vulnerability, filing it away. He hunted it. He tracked Bernard Meyer with the same meticulous focus he applies to the villains we hunt.
He saw the festering wound in my soul and prescribed the only cure our twisted hearts recognize: righteous, brutal excision. On Christmas Eve. Wrapping my trauma in a plan for vengeance and presenting it as a gift.
This is his love language. Growls of violent promise.
As I look at him, at the fierce pride in his eyes, I understand. My love for him transcends us both. It is absolute.
I reach for his hand, lacing my fingers with his. The bar door seems to glow, a portal to the past and our violent, exquisite future.
"I'm ready," I say, the words a thank you and a prayer at the same time.
His grin is a flash of white in the dark, a predator's smile, ready to feast. Together, we walk toward the door, the snow crunching under our boots like the bones we are about to break.
I've never felt more whole, or more loved in my entire life.
The stench of the bar hits my nostrils like a wave that should belong in a locker room. Then the scent of cheap beer, fried food, and artificial pine air freshener follows.
A few grizzled regulars glance over from the football game on the TVs, their brows furrowing at our presence. We don't belong here. In this decrepit, wood-paneled dive bar. With their instincts lulled by the alcohol, we could take them all out: two versus eight.
But that would be awfully messy, and not exactly kosher to Reed's principles. That would be a tremendous amount of collateral damage.
My eyes dart from each pale, chubby man to the next, and then I see him.
Bernard Meyer.
He's a sagging, bloated, pathetic waste of space, hunched over a vodka neat. His voice, an arrogant slur, cuts through the television chatter, and every word is a desecration of my brother's memory—of what he could have been.
"—a decade of my life! For what?? A T-bone accident after a fresh snow? Anyone could have been in my shoes. Just because I decided to have a couple of drinks, I'm the villain? The justice system is against guys like me and you."
A T-bone accident.
My brother's life, reduced to a cut of steak. The chilled focus in my mind shatters, replaced by unforgiving certainty. He doesn't just deserve to die. He deserves to be tortured. Deserves to be hung up and bled out like a deer.
The plan of a quick, clean kill evaporates from my frontal cortex. That's too merciful for an arrogant bastard like him. Prison was a mercy that he never deserved. They should have fried this motherfucker.
Reed senses the shift in my eyes. His muscles tense, ready to adapt. His eyes flick to mine, seeing the dark hunger grow. He offers me a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Whatever you need, sweetheart.
My feet carry me forward, my heart racing a million miles per hour, the veins of my forehead bulging, as I take a seat next to the monster.
He reeks of onions and cheap vodka, a foul combination of neglect and self-pity. His eyes stay focused on the bartender, swirling the poison in the glass that won't kill him fast enough. "Seat's taken, kid," he slurs, the words thick and entitled.
The word kid is a spark on a trail of combustible gunpowder. My smile is wide and cold. "I'm not a kid," I say, my voice soft. "I'm a ghost of the one you killed."
That gets his attention. His head lolls toward me. Confusion swims in his bleary eyes, then slowly, clears into recognition. He sees the family resemblance—the blonde hair, the cheekbones, the eyes that hold a decade worth of hatred.
"You're… you're that—"
"The brother," I finish for him, my voice dropping to a sweet, malicious whisper. "The one whose death you called an 'accident'. We thought we would show the difference between what an accident and intention really means."
His eyes dart back and forth between me and Reed with blown pupils, his lips quivering. The pathetic, self-pitying facade crumbles, revealing the raw coward beneath. He tries to shuffle backward on the stool, but me and Reed have him cornered.
Before he can yell, I place the scalpel on the bar, jutting out the razor-sharp blade. "If you make a peep, I'll gut you right here." The softness is gone from my voice, replaced by cold, clinical objectiveness. "And my partner here will make sure nobody interferes. He's very persuasive."
On cue, Reed smirks, giving Bernard a devious wink.
Bernard's mouth closes, his nostrils sniffling. He understands now. There is no room for negotiation.
"Good," I purr, picking up the scalpel and sliding it into my coat pocket.
"Now, you're going to stand up. You're going to smile at the nice bartender like you're just going to take a piss.
And you're going to walk outside. If you try to run, if you signal, if you do anything but exactly what I say…
" I lean in, my breath scalding his ear.
"…I will make your death an agonizing masterpiece, a private celebration of suffering that will last until next Christmas.
Do you understand the terms of our agreement? "
He nods frantically, the fat of his neck jiggling.
A sheen of sweat instantly glazes his forehead and upper lip, catching the dim bar light.
The raw, acrid scent of his terror—a mix of sour vodka and primal fear—putrefies the air.
He is prey caught in a trap, every instinct screaming, yet completely cornered by two predators.
It brings a warm, unrivaled joy to my heart, spreading through my chest like the memory of my first kill. This. This is exactly what Christmas should feel like. Not tinsel and joyous carols, but the pure deliverance of righteous vengeance, served on a night of false cheer.
I stand, and he scrambles to take the first step, his movements severely lacking grace, his body clumsy with fear and intoxication. His legs nearly buckle, and he has to grab the edge of the bar to steady his weight.
Pathetic.
I observe gleefully the panic tremoring his muscles. I want him to marinate in his fear. I want to be the architect of his last memory. I want to be the cruelty that haunts him for eternity.
I offer him my arm, a gentleman leading his date to the gallows. Hesitantly, he takes it. His grip weak and slick. I embrace the frantic, rabbit-like flutter of his pulse against my side. It's a rhythm more cathartic than any Christmas carol.
"Don't forget to smile, Bernard," I remind him softly, steering us towards the door. "It's the season of giving. And we have so much to offer you."
As I push the door open, he twists, giving the bartender one last look of horror. It's most honest expression he's offered all night.
As we step into the Minnesota chill, into the darkness, with Reed and a squirming mass of a man, I know this will be the most meaningful Christmas I will ever have. With the man that I love to death.
Reed pops open the trunk, grabbing the rope and gag from the kill kit. I take it from the bag and stuff the gag in his mouth. "Open up," I chuckle.
Meanwhile, Reed ties his hands in a tight knot. And then his feet. He's quickly reduced to a wriggling mass of desperation and squeals. Together, we hoist him into the trunk of the SUV, the vehicle bobbing from his weight.
"God, I can't believe this sad excuse of a human being is the reason why I lost my brother," I murmur, shaking my head as I stare at Bernard's trembling form. The sheer inadequacy of him is an insult to Carson's memory.