Concealed Affliction (20 page)

Pun intended.

Pop!

It would be music to my ears. The following silence.

But I’m afraid to let up. I’m so fucking weak and the new blood rushing down my back isn’t slowing. It’s a steady and constant reminder that I may not have a lot of time before I pass out again.

His hands pull strong and I know for a fact that if I let up and attempt to kill him by snapping his neck, he’ll get the upper hand.

I can’t let him beat me. I won’t.

Now, it’s all about avenging my family and getting some justice for the lifeless and innocent man that lies on the floor in front of us.

I don't look at Andrew.

I look at Cory.

I squeeze my legs as tight as I can, ignoring the aches and pains channeling throughout my body while I try to kill the man who has taken everything from me. It feels like hours, but it only takes a minute or two until I feel it. His limp body slowly overtakes mine to the point that my arms holding onto the beam are now carrying our weight.

I don’t let go until long after his hands have fallen to his sides and my arms can’t bear the brunt of our combined weight any longer. I loosen my legs from their hold on his neck and haul myself upward at the same time.

I watch his body drop. His head thwaps against the hard concrete floor.

I have no idea if I killed him, but I know I need to move fast.

I use what little strength I have left and swing my legs up a few times, unsuccessfully, trying to get them around the beam so I can swing myself over.

After the third try, I’m almost ready to give up. The blood dripping down my legs has made the beam slippery. I give it one last go while clutching the prickly rope and manage to get one leg over.

I pull with everything I have and don't stop for one second as I allow myself to free fall ungracefully over the other side. I wail in pain when my back comes into contact half with the floor, and half with Cory’s body.

I don't have much time!

I crawl over my child’s perfect father, slipping in the blood on the floor as I reach Andrew’s unconscious body. I pull the side of his red polo up and un-sheath the knife he has kept there. He never bothered to clean it. My dried blood causes it to stick in the holder. I pull hard and it finally comes free.

My blood soaked hands fight to keep a grip on it as I saw back and forth over the frayed rope binding my wrists. I move as quick as I can, back and forth, back and forth, working tirelessly to cut them off. I place my foot on the slack and pull as I cut, finally breaking free.

I tell myself I would not be a normal person if I didn’t shed tears in this moment. I settle for the fact I’ll never again be normal, because the first thing I do is drag the slack on the blood stained rope toward Andrew.

I ignore the pain, I ignore the exhaustion. I pay no attention to my aching bones and bleeding body. I simply stare at the innocent man on the floor and wind the ropes, in the form of a figure eight around Andrew’s forearms. I weave and wind and end with a boat knot.

I crawl on hands and feet, cursing my bleeding back while I untie the rope attached to the floor. Swinging my arm back, I throw the rope over the curved portion of the beam, the same way it was. It takes a few tries, but I get it. I move as quickly as I can back to the steel loop bolted to the floor, feeding the rope back through.

Using every last ounce of energy left in my body, I pull—for my mom, for my dad, for my daughter, and for Cory.

* * *

I slap his face, once, twice, three times.

No luck.

His head hangs heavy on his shoulders, arms suspended above his head. I grab my empty piss bucket and drag myself over to the spigot on the wall. There’s no hose, so I fill the putrid bucket with water, leaving the tap on because my hands hurt too badly to try and close it. I go to pick it up off the ground, but my arms cannot carry it full. The remainder of my strength put Andrew where he currently hangs.

I push the bucket to the side, emptying half its contents, before throwing the rest at his face. He sputters, and spits, before opening his eyes. Clearly disoriented and wondering how in the fuck he ended up where he is now. Hanging and helpless. I greet him with a mocking smirk that I embrace, along with my hoarse voice.

“Welcome back.”

He thrashes his feet, pulling on his arms. It serves no purpose; it only makes the sticky rope bind tighter.

“You bitch! I’ll fucking kill you! You hear that! Kill you!”

“Tsk, Tsk, Andrew. I thought we could play a game. You like games, don’t you?”

I leave his line of sight, walking behind him. His feet continue to flop like a fish tail out of water. I grab onto the back of his sweat-soaked shirt and bring the knife to the top of it. I push down, cutting the fabric until his back is visible.

The knife pierces his skin as he thrashes, but I have no remorse. Nor do I tell him to stay still. I drag the tip of the blade from his back to his front. I zero in on the lower portion of his body, repeating the same procedure to the belt on his jeans as I did with his shirt. I flick the knife toward the button. His body goes completely still.

I’ve found his weakness.

“What are you doing? You won’t fucking get away with this!”

I push down on the handle and hear a ‘ping’ when the metal button bounces off the cold concrete floor. I tilt my chin toward his face, enjoying the look of him rendered so helpless.

“I already have, Andrew.”

I waste no time in pushing the blade further down his body, ridding him of ever article of clothing aside from his boxers. I want him to feel exactly how I did in this position. I want him to be weaker than me, begging for his life.

His jeans get caught on the rope I tied around his ankles. I wasn’t about to leave them loose and able to choke me as I did to him. I leave the jeans where they are and grab my second weapon from the side of the room. He used a two-by-four to hit me with. I however don’t think I’d have enough energy to swing the piece of wood hard and fast enough to leave a wound. This is what has me grabbing the four-foot piece of pipe off the floor, something where its weight will do all the work.

“What are you doing with that? You bitch! Let me down!”

“That’s not going to happen, Andrew. You should’ve thought this through better before you brought me here.”

“What are you talking about? I watched you for years! I’ve planned this for a year!”

“Ah, but you didn’t plan well enough, did you? Because for all the watching you did, including these past three days in this fucking hole, you still failed to learn the most important part of me.”

He pulls tighter on the ropes, hoping to gain some slack. Spit flies from his mouth as he begins to yell at me.

“Fuck you! I know EVERYTHING about you! I know you spread your fucking legs for just about any bastard who walks into Frank’s. I know you never let them spend the night because you’re a fucking whore who won’t give anyone a chance!

“You fuck them for what Jayne, a few months before you toss them aside? People in this town think you walk on fucking water! Well you know what? I DON’T! I saw your true colors. I knew you were just like the rest of them! I know the only type of shampoo you use, so fuck you saying I don’t know you!”

His rant is that of a madman, clearly not well in the head. It makes me wonder how someone like him has survived in society for so long. I hold the pipe in one hand, and mindlessly drag the blade back and forth across his chest. Not caring if it makes a mark, but not intending to do so, yet.

“The most important part of me is not who I spread my legs for, or what other people think of me. It’s not the shampoo I use or what I eat for lunch. No, the most important thing, Andrew, is that I don’t give up and I’m not afraid to die.

“You see, you brought me down here, hoping I’d say sorry, hoping I’d beg for my life. I would do no such thing. Ever. You know why?

Spit flies from his mouth as he speaks.

“Fuck you, you crazy bitch! I’ll kill you when I get down from here, I’m going to fucking kill you!”

I don’t listen to a word he says. Mostly because I don’t care, and also because it doesn’t matter. I move to his back while he continues to curse me. Pushing what’s left of his shirt aside, I place the knife just below his shoulder blade.

“The why, Andrew, is the most important thing. You see, if you want to kidnap and torture someone, you better make damn sure they have something left to live for.”

I pierce his skin, watching as the red drips down his back.

“You see, I have nothing left because you took it all from me. So I didn’t beg, plead for my life, or say ‘I’m sorry’ like you wanted me too. No, I did none of that. Because there wasn’t one god damn thing you could do to bring them back. The only thing I wished for, and fought for, was this moment right here.”

I lean forward, putting my mouth closer to his ear.

“It’s called retribution, you sick fuck. And it starts now.”

I’m sickly pleasured by the cries coming from his throat as I drag the blade in the same pattern he did on me. I take no pity on him as I watch the blood run from his shoulder to his lower back.

“That was for Gary O’Connor. Father, husband, and grandfather.”

I move the knife under his other shoulder blade, dragging it slowly on an angle down toward his spine.

“That was for Susan O’Connor. Mother, wife, sister and grandmother.”

I listen to his screams echo off the cold concrete walls. I can hear the tears in his voice, his garbled cries pleading with me to stop.

I don’t.

I can’t.

I drop the bloody knife to the floor, picking up the rusted piece of pipe. I grab onto it as fiercely as my blood soaked hands will let me. I test the weight of it in my hands, swinging it around, listening the whooshing sound as it slices through the air.

I walk around the body hanging in front of me. I drag the pipe, letting the screeching sound of it scraping across the concrete grace my ears. I see the tears and snot running down his face. The desperation in his eyes almost causes me to drop the cold metal.

Almost.

“You’re going to hell, you evil bitch. You’re going to hell for all the sins you’ve committed and what you’re doing right now!”

I smirk as much as my battered face will let me.

“I guess I’ll meet you there then, won’t I Andrew.”

I haul the pipe up and swing as hard as I can, hearing the crack when it comes into contact with his ribs. His cries of pain fuel me to move forward like a woman possessed. After everything he has done to me in the past three days, I keep swinging.

I don’t listen to him pleading with me to stop. I only hear the crunching of bones and the feel of warm blood raining out of his body. When my arms have grown tired, and my legs begin to tremble, I drop the pipe.

I fall to my knees, feeling around the blood soaked floor for the knife. I grasp the handle with my shaking fingers and push myself back up.

I will not die, I will not give up.

I’m so tired, but I’m not finished yet.

“Open your eyes,” I say, slapping him hard. “I said open your fucking eyes!”

He opens them slowly and spits a mouthful of blood out onto the floor so he can speak.

“They all deserved to die. Your bastard daughter deserved to die.”

I don’t think, I just bring my right arm up, positioning the knife.

“This, you sick son of a bitch, is for Lilly O’Connor. A beloved daughter and granddaughter. She was my HEART!”

I pull back, and swing forward as quick and hard as I can, pushing the hunting-style blade deep into his heart, not stopping until the base of the handle comes into contact with his skin. I pull the knife out, walking backwards. Not entirely sure why I feel no remorse, wondering if I’ll feel guilty later.

My feet slip on the water that has leaked out from the spigot on the wall, not caring or bothering to turn it off. I take one last look at the room I never want to see again, the resting place of my daughter’s dead father and now the man hanging from the pole who’s no longer breathing.

I won’t feel guilty.

I feel nothing.

Chapter Seventeen

I reach over blindly toward the night stand, searching for my buzzing phone. I crack my eyes open and look at the clock. It reads ten in the morning. I didn’t go to bed until three; I was too busy packing up my belongings, preparing to move. I can’t take everything. It won’t all fit in my truck. I debate shipping, or storage, but then I think I could be dead or in jail before the year is out, so that’s probably a stupid idea. I settled for sorting it into the few boxes I had in the closet.

I packed up two small suitcases to take with me. The rest I’ll figure out later. I open up the shitty flip phone and put it to my ear.

“Hello,” I say in my sleep filled, raspy morning voice.

“It’s Rodriguez. You got five minutes?”

“Ya, shoot.”

“Alright, no holds at the border under your name. Only in the town you lived in and a few of the surrounding ones. You’re not labeled a fugitive; you’re just wanted for information regarding the deaths of Andrew Roberts and Cory Gallagher.”

I breathe out a sigh of relief.

“Thanks, Cabe.”

“No problem, but one more thing.”

I can sense this isn’t part of the good news.

“Lucy Greer was found dead a few months after your attack. She was hit by a car.”

My eyes shoot open, I sit straight up in bed. This isn’t sitting right with me.

“That can’t be a coincidence,” I say. No way, what are the odds?

“You may be right Elle, but there were no leads on the vehicle. No autopsy. She’s long dead and buried now.”

“Any other information? I still don’t know who Andrew’s father was either? Maybe that’s something to look into.”

“He wasn’t listed as far as I can tell and I haven’t started searching for the brother yet. Other than locating the death of Lucy Greer, that’s as far as I got before I called you. Leave it with me, I’ll let you know what I find out.”

I breathe out a sigh of relief, thankful for this tech savvy man.

“I appreciate it, Cabe. Also, I may be getting a new number. I do that a lot, so don’t be alarmed if I call you from a Canadian burner in the next few days.”

“No problems, Elle.”

“Thanks for the help. Talk soon.”

I hang up the phone and stare blankly across the room.

Lucy Greer.

Dead.

Something is not right, something is seriously wrong.

* * *

I toss the rest of the spinach into the pan. It’s a random dinner made up of things left over in my fridge. Chicken, spinach, peppers, parmesan, garlic—basically whatever wasn’t rotting got put into the pan.

I just finish draining the pasta when there’s a knock on the front door. Norma waddles her ass over to it, barking. I set the strainer aside and grab my gun off the counter, concealing it behind my back as I walk toward the doorway.

“Who is it?”

“Denny.”

I motion for Norm to calm down and open the door. He still has that sad look in his eye, like disappointment or something similar to that.

“What do you need?”

He shoves his hands into his front pockets.

“Can I come in please, I’d like to talk to you. Without hawk eyes over there watching my every fucking move.”

I look left toward Ryder’s house and sure enough, he’s standing there leaning against his porch railing, eyeballing Denny. Or maybe me. Either way it’s not a nice look, but I still don’t give one fuck. I open the door, gesturing for him to come in.

I walk back into the kitchen and grab the strained penne out of the sink, mixing it in with my goulash of leftover fridge contents and a little bit of heavy cream.

“I’m sorry, Elle.”

I don’t turn around because I hate those words.
I’m sorry
. It never feels like it’s enough, and I hated hearing it over four hundred times at my family’s funeral. I don’t tell him that though. I just continue to mix up my dinner for seven.

The last supper.

“I won’t lie to you Elle and tell you I didn’t expect Ryder to be with Claudia in Chicago, because I did. I just didn’t want to believe it. She’s a manipulative bitch, Elle. I can’t fucking stand her.”

It pleases me to hear that she’s not perfect. That would please any woman who has been cheated on. I secretly hope she’s an overweight ugly whore too, but I don’t think I’d be that fortunate.

“I came here Elle not only because I wanted to apologize, but because I wanted to tell you if I knew that’s what he was doing in Chicago, I would’ve told you. Or I would’ve told him to stop. I asked him Elle, when he got back. All he told me was that he was tying up some loose ends with Becker. I didn’t believe him, but he also didn’t have a reason to lie to me. We’ve all fucked around Elle. I’m no fucking choir boy either. But if I knew the truth I wouldn’t have let it go on without telling you.”

I stop my stirring to face him.

“I’m not exactly angry with you, Denny. I’m just fed up. I don’t like to be lied to. Brock told me you were a good person, and I believe him, Denny, I do. However at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what happened. I’m out of here and have bigger things to worry about like whether or not I’ll end up in jail, or worse.”

“A lot of my loyalty lies with Ryder, darlin’. But that doesn’t mean I have no respect for you. To be honest I respect you more than any other woman I’ve met. You’re a good person Elle, and I’ll still think you’re good lookin’ even if orange doesn’t turn out to be your color.”

I whip my head around and do something even I didn’t expect.

I laugh.

A full, deep belly laugh that even catches Denny off guard. I wipe the tears from my eyes and the snot off my face. He can’t contain the grin stretching across his face, and regardless of what happened, I still really like this man.

I return his smile and turn around, reaching into the cupboard. I grab two plates and dish out my concoction, pushing a plate across the bar to him.

“The last supper, eat up.”

He grabs the fork and knife I hand him before digging in, clearly not shy to join in on my impromptu dinner. I’m thankful I’m not eating alone, despite the numb in my body.

“What are you going to do with all your stuff?” Denny asks.

I glance around the little cottage-style home. I love this place, yet I’m eager to get my past life dealt with.

“Leave it. I was going to get a storage unit, but that’s a shit idea. I pre-paid a year’s rent on this place, so basically it is my storage unit. Maybe Ryder or Tom will find someone to move in, or maybe he’ll just maintain it while it sits empty. I packed up all my clothes into boxes, so if I need it, I’ll get it shipped to me.”

Denny is quiet before he looks at me solemnly.

“You mean if you live, or don’t end up in jail, you’ll get it sent to you.”