House of Steel (22 page)

“Yeah, I remember. Let’s just do this a
little more…” The man’s voice next to her paused as he lowered his
voice.

“Joe?” Her voice escaped from underneath the
black hood between her clenched teeth.

“Let’s do this a little more diplomatic,”
Joe ignored her, finishing his sentence.

“Diplomatic?” Gunnar laughed. His voice was
low and raspy, dripping with years of bourbon and cigarettes. The
laughter turned to the sound of a low growl. His voice became a
discontented, crazed pit bull swarming behind her.

“Diplomacy left me ten years ago when I
started working for our boss,” he said. “Did you forget that you
asked to come with me when I stopped to get my car?” The inflection
of his voice hung in the air.
He’s crazy. I’m dead. Joe, what
the hell are you doing?

Joe’s feet stopped and turned toward her.
“This is good.” Numb and bloody, she obeyed the order.

“No, in the other building,” Gunnar said as
she felt the barrel against her back again.

“Come on. You might as well take off the
hood. Get started with it before it’s too late and somebody else
finds that kid,” Joe prodded.

“No,” Gunnar grunted behind her, pushing the
barrel harder into her back. The spot began to throb, radiating out
to the rest of her back.
Where the hell are Mark and James?
They’ll never find me here. I should have gone to the police.
“The other building.” Delaney shuddered as Gunnar’s words echoed in
the air.

“Fine, but we do it my way,” Joe
interrupted, clearly agitated. The wind flapped in the black hood
as they drew closer to the cold.
An opening.
Delaney trudged
forward, still stumbling, her feet unable to process her brain’s
signals. The frozen air stung her hands while a dim haze filtered
in through the black hood.
We’re outside.
She watched as the
black boots left footprints in the snow ahead. Daggers shot through
her feet as she pressed into it, leaving small footprints with
speckles of red.
How am I feeling this? My feet are numb.
The gun still in her back, she bent forward, trying to jump faster
through the snow. The low laughter sounded behind her.

“It’s not far,” Joe muttered under his
breath to Delaney.

“What was that?” Gunnar yelled in the wind
as it lashed against her body.

“IT’S COLD. LET’S GO!” Joe yelled. The sound
of a spring and creak of a door opening shot Delaney’s head up.
The other building. No more snow.
She stepped up onto the
filthy concrete as a strong mix of stale manure and animals entered
into her nostrils. Pieces of dark brown straw littered the cracks
of the concrete.
A barn?
The last time she had been in a
barn was with her overly-religious boyfriend back in college;
however, she had painted countless barns in the past few weeks.
House_of_Steel?
The door closed behind her, feeling the
reprieve from the harsh outdoor elements. The smallest inkling of
warmth cuddled her body as she stepped through the hardened manure
into the pitch black.

“Up ahead. Turn that thing on,” Gunnar’s
voice sounded behind her. The radiance of a bright light flooded
near her feet.
A flashlight.
A rusted, steel pole shot up to
her left as she veered her feet in the opposite direction. The
sound of feet shuffling along the concrete filled the darkness. A
clicking sound perked her ears. She knew the sound as her mind
flashed to cutting her own rolls of canvas to paint.
A utility
blade.

“What are you – ” Gunnar yelled. Delaney
felt her arms being yanked to the side as she tried to propel
forward.

“Stay still,” Joe’s voice cautioned. The
blade brushed her skin before the plastic around her wrists
released. Her hands ached as she moved her arms forward.

“Thank you,” she whispered as she rubbed her
hands together. The numbness tingled to the tips of her
fingers.

“Don’t fuck this up,” Gunnar growled toward
Joe. “In here.”

A loud scrape followed by the clang of metal
banging resonated on her left. He shoved her forward onto the
concrete with the point of his gun. Pain jolted her body as she
sprawled to her hands and knees. The familiar warmth of her own
blood seeped onto her hands.

“A pen? She’s not an animal,” Joe’s voice
cut through the air.

“My holding place. It’s familiar to me.”
Gunnar laughed as he followed her in. “Shut it behind you.”
Holding place? A pen?

Joe’s boots appeared in front of her. She
felt the warmth of the black cloth leave her as he pulled the hood
from her head. The beam of the flashlight flashed in her eyes
before she squinted and turned away, but the light followed
her.

“On the bale.” Gunnar waved the gun at the
stacks of hay in the corner of the concrete and the steel
ten-by-ten pen. She skidded across the floor on her hands and
knees, feeling the sting in her palms as she made contact with the
surface. Another low spurt of laughter rung in her ears as she
crawled onto the first bale, the hay poking at her jeans.

“Alright, I’ll take it from here,” Joe said
as the beam of light moved toward her. The silhouette of Joe
appeared before her. His face, partially lit with the haze of his
own flashlight, filled the space in front of her. The same gentle
eyes she had met two day ago looked back at her from beneath the
black ski mask and blue snowsuit.

“Delaney,” Joe said. It was the same Joe
that had dug her out of the ditch. The Joe who had a run-down
warehouse for a body shop an hour away. The Joe who had lost his
daughter. The Joe who fixed her car for free. The Joe who was
somehow connected to Holston Parker. The vomit came up through her
throat before she could stop it, turning just in time to dry heave
what little she had in her stomach onto the bale next to her.

“Here.” Joe outstretched his hand, holding
his gloves.

“I’m okay,” she replied, wiping her mouth
with the back of her hand.
No hand-outs.
She couldn’t trust
Joe. Not now. Gunnar leaned against the rusted poles as a low,
short chuckle left his throat. The gun was poised on his leg,
pointed in her direction.

“Alright. Let’s not make this harder than it
needs to be.” Joe looked over his shoulder, stuffing the gloves
into his jacket pocket. “We’re looking for him.”

“For the kid you fucked. I warned you about
him. I didn’t want to see you again.” Gunnar waved the gun at her
interrupting Joe.

“Mr. Rowan,” Delaney whispered. “How did you
know?”

“That dirty bastard. He’s just another
initial on my arm.” Gunnar smiled, pulling up the sleeve of his
jacket to reveal letters tattooed into his forearm. The latest ink
near his wrist had puffy, pink skin surrounding it. It was fresh.
R.R. – Richard Rowan.
The letters disappeared into his
jacket. There were at least twenty initials searing his arm that
Delaney could see.
He’s killed all those people. Jesus.

“But, how – ” Delaney started. Her body
coiled inward.

“Richard Rowan deserved it. Just like the
others. I should have gotten him fourteen years ago, but the police
got him before I could. I was waiting for him to be released,” he
replied. “I’m surprised you didn’t know he was out.”

“I didn’t,” she stammered. She had tried to
forget everything about him and about that night. The smell of
singed hair nauseated her.

“But you liked what you saw, didn’t you?”
Gunnar accused.

“I…” Delaney looked at the ground, his eye
burning her skin.

“You didn’t do anything about it. Didn’t
call the police. You were
satisfied
,” he said. Delaney
pulled her face up, staring into his condemning eyes. But she
hadn’t been the one that sunk the knife into his chest. Gunnar
killed him, but he was right, she had felt satisfaction. He had
gotten what he deserved. Warmth flushed her face as the realization
hit her.

“What I did wasn’t so wrong after all, was
it?” Gunnar began to laugh.

“But how?” she pressed again.

“When we get this little matter straightened
out, you can ask Holston Parker about how I knew,” he replied. “And
why. For now, I need to know where that kid is. Where did she take
him?

“She?” Delaney asked.

“Theron Olson. Where is he?” Joe stepped in,
leaning into her.

“I have no idea,” she replied, staring into
his eyes as he studied her face.

“Come on, Delaney. We want to help you,” Joe
said.

“I really don’t know.” She bit her already
cracked lip, crusted over with dry blood and salt. “I wish I
did.”

“Tell us something,” Joe cajoled. She
watched as he rubbed his goatee with the back of his hand. The
scratching noises sent shivers through her already frozen body.

“I can’t tell you anything,” she lied,
looking down at her toes. She shot her eyes back up as the white
hair charged toward her.

“Cut the bull,” Gunnar spat as he shoved the
gun into her forehead. “I know you’re working with her.”

“OW!” Delaney cried as she scrambled to get
away. She felt the crack against her skull when the gun made
contact with her head and threw her to the ground. Now on her
belly, she felt the familiar warmth trickle down the other side of
her head. Hands pulled her arms behind her back. Metal surrounded
her wrists followed by a clicking sound.
Handcuffs.

“Not gonna get these off. Are ya, Joe?”
Gunnar scoffed before pain shot to her abdomen from the contact of
his boot.

“No, I’m not.” Joe stepped back,
relinquishing all control to the crazed Gunnar.

“Let’s try this again.” Gunnar yanked her up
by the handcuffs as she struggled to shuffle her feet beneath her.
Half-bent, she coughed, trying to catch her breath. He pushed her
to the bales, shoving her down as her face scratched against the
sharp, yellow ends of the straw. Joe stepped forward as she cried
out again, but stopped and moved back to the pole.

“Sit.” Gunnar knocked the gun against the
bale.

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

“Try harder, for that little boyfriend of
yours.” He laughed as he pointed the gun back at her forehead.

“He’s not my boyfriend…” she started before
she saw Joe shaking his head behind Gunnar.

“I don’t give a shit. Just tell me where he
is. Tell me where
she
is,” Gunnar said as he leaned down,
one knee on the ground in front of her. The jaw of the Neanderthal
inched closer to her, his skin pulled tight against his hard face.
The scar pulsated in his face, threatening to slither from his
cheek.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who
is
she
? I’m not working with anyone and I told you, I don’t
know where Theron is.” Her voice was small, almost a whisper
against the wind battering against the wooden planks of the barn.
She leaned back as his eyes tore into her. He was losing it, she
knew, but she had nothing to tell him.

“Give him something. Give
me
something,” Joe interrupted from behind him. The light shone
brighter as he moved forward, casting shadows along Gunnar’s face.
Gunnar’s crazy. He’s going to kill me if I don’t tell him
something.
The jacket. The texts. He’s not V. If he doesn’t
have Theron, then who the hell does?

30

DAY 4: Sunday, December 21 - 4:30 p.m.

Flicking the headlights off, Evie turned the
gray sedan onto the path. What was left of the sunny day had dipped
below the horizon exposing the last haze that would soon turn to
black. It would be close if she could get to them fast, disposing
of Gunnar before Holston found them. It wouldn’t be long before he
came here, looking for Gunnar. It wasn’t his best hire. Gunnar was
getting sloppy. Holston had to know that by now. Besides, he wasn’t
exactly the brightest employee he had on staff. Holston hadn’t
hired Gunnar for his intellect, however; a machete was far from the
correct arsenal for a discreet hit man.

The tread of the tires crunched along the
ice packed deep into the crevices of the stones. There was snow
surrounding the two buildings that were only set thirty yards
apart. The wooden farm and shed, weathered a silvery gray, dirtied
the otherwise pristine landscape. The car crawled along the path
until she was fifty yards away, stopping the engine. The wind
whistled against the car. Gunnar was waiting for her, but they
wouldn’t hear her coming. She had been strategizing this moment for
months. Calculating, planning how the end might come to fruition.
Gunnar needed her alive. But she couldn’t say the same about Gunnar
– he was dispensable to her. Her bullets would take down her first
victim.

She gave her holster one last reassuring
check before patting her leg, feeling the hard blade against her
skin. Her fist made contact with the glove compartment as it flung
open to reveal a flashlight and more knives. She wrapped her hands
around the flashlight, turned off the door light, and slipped out
of the gray sedan onto the iced stones.

Her lungs burned, letting the disgust
invigorate her body. Holston Parker had kept the building after
what had happened. It had been twelve years since she had been here
last. She had pleaded with him to get rid of the dilapidated
buildings – to burn them down. He had promised to take care of
them, just as he had taken care of everything else. She had trusted
him. Your father was supposed to do anything to protect his
daughter.

Her father had done what he thought needed
to be done instead. She closed her eyes, smelling the deep aroma of
the outdoors and the cheap, spicy cologne that had permeated
Henry’s body.

Henry had taken her here twelve years ago
when she was fifteen. He was nineteen. She had pursued Henry after
she had spotted him at one of her father’s construction sites
during the summer before her junior year of high school. His chest
had glistened in the sun, inked with tattoos across his chiseled
back and arms. She had slipped her petite body through the framed
walls while her father had turned his back to her, occupied with
the foreman. Her wavy, brown hair streamed down her back, blowing
in the gentle breeze of the summer wind. Standing in her tiny,
cut-off shorts and body-hugging tank top, she had introduced
herself as he stood with the nail gun poised in the air.