Chapter Two #2
I'm so damn tempted to knock him out right here so I can have some peace and quiet to do what I came here for. Instead, I jab him in the ribs with my elbow and smile devilishly when breath rushes from his lungs. Serves him right for being an idiot.
As we push through the underbrush, the Driscolls' trailer finally comes into view. Every window is lit, with the curtains drawn, letting me see easily inside. The only downfall is the light illuminating the yard. I'm going to have to use the shadows to my advantage to get a closer look.
As I'm about to step out and move closer to the house, a woman's scream slices through the air. Instantly, my hackles are up. I want nothing more than to break down the door and give good ole Pete Driscoll the beating of his life, but my training kicks in and keeps me rooted to my spot.
I dart a hand out to hold Thatcher back since having him barreling in there would be a disaster.
"Stand the fuck down. I know it's impossible to hear that and not want to help, but we need to be strategic about this.
We need to watch a bit and see if we can spot them.
This part of the trailer is lit like the Fourth of July, but we can't see the rooms on the other side.
Plus, we have no idea where the kids are.
If you go busting in, one or both could get hurt. "
Thatcher runs his fingers through his hair in frustration.
I know the feeling, bud, and I hate to say it never gets any better in situations like this .
"I'm going to sneak up and get a closer look. Since you're here, cover my back. But do not follow me. I don't want to accidentally take your ass out if I think someone's sneaking up on me."
"Fine. Just hurry the fuck up. I can't stand this."
"I know. That's why you should've listened to me and stayed behind." I hold my hand up to cut off his argument as another wail pierces the dark night air. "Stay. Here."
With one final glance at Thatcher, I slink into the night and towards the trailer. Boomer once said I looked like a panther stalking its prey when I went into hunt mode, and I rather like that image.
With cat-like reflexes, I launch myself over the broken porch railing and land on my toes to soften the sound.
I glance through the front door window and find Betsy lying on the floor, blood spilling from her lip, as Pete uses her body as his footrest. He's got his nasty-ass feet on her, stains and tears on his too-tight shirt, and a beer in his hand as he watches the TV.
Rage floods my veins as this piece of shit sits on his throne built off the fear and defeat of the poor woman lying at his feet.
Betsy's eyes are closed, but even so, tears spill from them. Her lip quivers as she shifts on the floor.
Before she can move, Pete kicks his foot out, slamming it into her ribs.
Turning from the door is one of the hardest things to do, but tonight is not the right time to exact Pete's punishment. That doesn't mean I don't think of a million different ways to torture the pig.
I slink back to the bushes and find Thatcher all but vibrating with frustration and anger.
"Come on. I've seen enough. It's time to go," I grit out, fighting my urge to make Pete the Prick pay for everything he's ever done to Betsy.
"What the fuck, Jo-Jo? You're just going to leave her there?" Thatcher’s anger is bubbling close to the surface, and I know I need to get him out of here before he does something he'll regret—or before he pushes my buttons enough for my tight grip on my control to finally snap.
I never wanted Thatcher to know about this part of my life, but I sometimes need help covering up why a person disappears. Thatcher has a lot of useful equipment at his disposal, which comes in quite handy from time to time.
"Yes, I'm just going to leave her, but you know damn well I'll be back. You know better than anyone that I wouldn’t go in there and risk those poor kids' safety. I can't go busting in there half-cocked, only for one of them to get hurt."
"Fuck," Thatcher growls, then strikes out and punches the tree. Instant regret floods his face, and I have to do everything in my power not to let my laugh fly.
"Come on, tough guy. Let's go get you some ice and a cold beer, before your hand balloons and you can't make magic on all those wood projects you have piling up for the good folk of Aspen Hollow."
It only takes about five minutes to navigate through the woods to where my old hoopty is parked. I love my banged-up, old jeep for nights like this when I don't know what I'm getting myself into. She might not be pretty, but she'll get the job done right quick if I need to get away.
Hayden, the town mechanic, removed the doors for me and added a roll cage, racing seats with harnesses, and big old shit-kicking tires so that I don't get stuck and can cut through low water if I need to.
She's nowhere near street legal, but that doesn't really matter around these parts.
Everybody and their brother has an old hoopty lying around to beat the hell out of every once in a while.
I drop Thatcher off at his place and make sure he gets ice on his hand before heading back to the Driscolls. Normally, I would plan out the perfect time to strike, but from the state of poor Betsy, I don't know how much fight she's got left in her.
Taking the long way around town and hitting as many back dirt roads as I can, I get back to the Driscolls in about an hour. Several lights are still on, but the place is quiet as I sit and listen. I stay hidden in the shadows well after 1 AM to make sure all is quiet for the night.
Grabbing my duffle bag from the backseat, I pull out two pairs of disposable gloves. One goes on while the other gets tucked in my back pocket. I also snag my black beanie and shove it in the other pocket. I'll put it on after I make sure the kids are in a safe and secure space.
I sneak around to the backside of the trailer and stop at an open window with a precariously hanging screen.
Looking through the corner of the window, I see that it's the kids’ room.
I scan the room further and find Betsy slumped against a dresser that she's pushed in front of the bedroom door. I couldn’t be luckier; at least I know they're all accounted for and safe while I take care of Petey boy.
As I walk back to the front of the trailer, a plan forms in my brain. I'm going to have a little fun with Pete. And to make things even better, he's going to help me leave an explanation—in the form of a letter in his own writing—for why he’s no longer around.
Hopping up on the decrepit deck, I glance in. Pete is passed out, his beer spilled on the floor and his pecker in his hand. The sight is revolting as fuck, but at least I know he won't be expecting me when I strike.
Out of curiosity, I turn the front door and smile when it glides open. With my bag slung over my shoulder, I make my way into the living room. The TV is blaring as Pete snores; his mouth is wide open, showing teeth full of rot and decay. Makes sense since he's such a vile human.
Walking past the waste of life passed out on the couch, I check the door to the kids’ room down the hall. I can barely hear the TV at this end of the trailer; it probably helps that this is the last room and furthest away. I bet Betsy did that on purpose.
Once I'm back in the living room, I drop my bag on the only clean chair. I pull on my ski mask and debate how I want to wake up Petey boy. Since he likes playing with his itty-bitty pencil dick, maybe we should start there.
I carefully move his palm off his tiny member before zip-tying both his hands together on his chest.
“Thank you, alcohol, for making my life easier,” I mumble under my breath.
Digging in my bag, I find plastic sheets and my string saw.
It's a two-feet long, sharp-as-hell serrated wire that is used to saw through pipes—or in my case, goat horns when they get too long.
Looking around for something to hold the string, I spot the remote and drop it in the cupholder, placing one end of the saw over it.
Then, I carefully wrap the other end of the wire around Pete's little pecker, retching as my fingers lift it to place the plastic underneath and a cable tie around it, which makes it twitch.
If I never again in my life see another dick like his, it will be too soon.
“Oh, my fucking hell. Do you remember that song?” I ask Pete the Prick as if he’s choosing to ignore me instead of being passed the fuck out. I start to sing. “Eeny-weeny, teeny-weeny, shriveled little short dick man. Don't want, don't want, don't want…”
The back of my hand smothers my laughter as the song plays on repeat in my head while I get the saw in place. At least I’m not gagging anymore. With the cord in my hand keeping the tension loose, I lean back and slap Pete hard across the face.
His eyes startle open as he jumps in his seat, which tightens the wire around his dick. His face pales from the pain in his lower extremity as his eyes get comically wide, the fear taking over fully.
"Wh-who the fuck are you?"
"The last person you're going to see before I take your vile, worthless life."
Pete goes to scream but stops as I shove a dirty shirt that was sitting on his couch into his mouth. He starts to move like he's going to stand, but all it takes is one tug on my trusty saw to have him bawling like a baby and sitting still like a good little boy.
Leaning forward, I tighten the cable tie to stop the flow of blood. Not that I mind blood, but I don't need to leave any more evidence than I already am.
Rummaging in my bag, I pull out a pad of paper and a pen. "Write a note to Betsy telling her you're leaving and not coming back. Make it short and sweet but believable."