‘Yes. I read a few of the articles that came up. I’m sorry, Marcus. You endured what no child should ever go through.’
‘Stone had it worse. I only heard it. He saw it.’
‘You mean your little brother being killed?’
He nodded, his throat constricting. He was having trouble breathing. Goddammit. ‘Yeah.’ He forced the word out. Gritted his teeth and beat back the panic. ‘Afterward, even after we were safe, I couldn’t sleep. Weeks and weeks went by and I still couldn’t sleep. I can remember staring at the ceiling for hours on end.’
She was stroking his chest, trying to calm him. ‘Understandable.’
‘I . . . got my grandfather’s gun and I . . . slept with it. Under my pillow.’ The stutter he’d suffered for years after the attack tried to come back, shaming him.
‘You were only eight years old,’ she whispered, pained.
‘Old enough to fire a gun if I needed to.’
‘Did having the gun keep the nightmares at bay?’
‘S-some. Not all.’
‘So the gun is a talisman.’
‘Yes,’ he said, relieved. That much was true. Everything else he’d said was also true, just not complete.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘Thank you for trusting me. I won’t betray your trust.’
He winced internally every time she said ‘trust’, but it wasn’t enough to make him say more. Not now. Not when she was in his arms. Not when she was believing him. He’d have to tell her. She deserved to know and he knew she would understand. But he wasn’t going there tonight.
She leaned up and pressed kisses to his jaw, his chin, his mouth. ‘Sleep now.’
If it were only that easy, he thought bitterly. He pulled her a little closer, stroking her hair, and she cuddled up to him. Within minutes she was asleep.
But he wasn’t. His heart continued to race as he stared up at the ceiling, wondering how he was going to find the words to tell her the truth.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Wednesday 5 August, 2.30 A.M.
Ken could hear Burton’s furious shouts the moment he opened his basement door.
‘Sweeney! Goddammit, Sweeney, you little fucker! What the fuck is this? Sweeney!’
Ken strolled down the stairs, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt. The nap hadn’t been enough to completely recharge him, but it would be enough to get what he needed out of Burton.
His basement was tidy again, no sign of the blood that had pooled on the floor after he’d slit the throats of Chip and Marlene Anders. Stephanie Anders sat on the floor in her cage, her arms hugging the knees she’d pulled to her chest. She wore a plain black shirt now. Pity. She’d been so pretty when he’d ripped off her top. Her eyes were shrewd as she watched him approach Burton, who had been tied to a chair. Hog-tied, actually, in a way that if he struggled, the rope would tighten around his throat like a noose. His jaw was bruised, his eye already black.
The noose and the shiner were both Alice’s work, Ken thought, and felt a spurt of pride. His daughter could take care of herself.
He walked up to Burton. Folded his arms across his chest. ‘You bellowed, Mr Burton?’
Burton looked up at him, hate in his eyes. ‘Why am I here?’ he growled.
‘Miriam Blackwell is alive.’
Burton blinked in shock, color flooding his face. A very good performance. ‘How?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know. She was found unconscious in her motel room. Anonymous 911 tip. The way I figure it, the only way that would be possible is if someone helped her throw up what I’d just given her.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Did you care for Reuben’s wife, Burton?’
‘Yes,’ he said levelly. ‘But not like you’re thinking. I loved her like a sister.’
Again, a good performance. ‘What else have you lied about?’
‘I haven’t.’
Ken backhanded him, sending the chair flying over. The ropes around Burton’s neck stopped the chair mid-fall, suspending it at an angle, tightening the noose around Burton’s throat. To his credit, Burton held perfectly still. Ken let him hang like that for ten seconds, then twenty, then shoved his foot between the rungs and snapped the chair upright.
Burton drew a ragged, wheezing breath. ‘You motherfucker,’ he snarled. ‘You’re insane.’
‘We’re going to try this again,’ Ken said calmly. ‘What else have you lied about?’
Burton clenched his teeth. ‘Nothing.’
Ken backhanded him again, waited a few seconds longer before righting the chair. ‘Where is Reuben?’
‘I. Don’t. Know.’
Ken hit him again and left him dangling for a full minute while he unlocked the closet where he stored his tool cart. By the time he’d pushed the cart close to Burton, the man had begun to thrash, his skin mottling a dark, ugly red. Ken righted the chair and loosened the rope from behind Burton’s back, not intending to become a victim of the man’s teeth.
Burton was gasping desperately when Ken returned to his cart and began inspecting his knives. ‘You ex-cops are tough, but I’ve never had one that didn’t break. Eventually.’
He chose a scalpel and turned back to see Burton’s eyes narrow with promised retaliation. When Burton remained mute, Ken tightened the noose again, leaving only enough slack so that the man could breathe if he was perfectly still.
Then, standing behind him, he briskly sliced away the top of Burton’s ear. Burton’s shocked cry of pain echoed in the basement. Ken returned to his cart, laying the strip of ear where Burton could see it. ‘Where is Reuben, Mr Burton?’
‘Go to fucking hell,’ Burton hissed, his body trembling, blood running down the side of his neck, soaking the rope. But he didn’t move, didn’t give the rope a chance to do any more damage.
‘Fucking hell actually sounds pleasant,’ Ken said with an easy smile. ‘Celibate hell would suck. Once again, where is Reuben?’
One half-hour and a full ear later, Ken had to admit he was impressed. Either Burton really didn’t know where Reuben was, or he was one tough sonofabitch. He’d sliced away the man’s ear a little at a time, recreating it like a puzzle on the tray of his cart, and still Burton admitted to nothing. Not to rescuing Reuben’s wife or to knowing Reuben’s plan.
It was time to take a break before Burton passed out from blood loss. That would be counterproductive to getting the information Ken really wanted. He’d washed the scalpel and packed his knives into a toolbox so that he could use them upstairs on Demetrius when the door opened at the top of the stairs.
‘He’s awake, sir,’ Decker called down.
‘Perfect timing. I was just taking a break here. Can you come down, Decker?’ He watched the man’s reaction as he came down the stairs and saw Burton tied up in the chair.
Decker took in the blood, the noose, and the reconstructed ear on the cart, all without a flinch or a flicker in his steely eyes. ‘Do you want me to bandage him up for you?’ he asked.
‘Sure, why not. Wouldn’t want that cut to get infected.’
A brief twitch of Decker’s lips was the only hint of an emotional response. ‘No, sir.’
Ken closed the toolbox. ‘Is Demetrius restrained?’
‘Just like you asked, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘Why?’ Burton growled. ‘If Demetrius is a fuckup, just kill him. Quick and clean. What’s with the Dr Mengele act?’
‘It’s not an act. Didn’t Reuben ever tell you about my . . . hobbies? Finance and corporate management are only part of my skill set.’ Ken smiled. ‘Demetrius is an intimidator. Fists like concrete. Reuben is all tactical, planning, keeping people in line. Me? I’m the monster that hides in your closet, the one your mother always told you didn’t exist. I’ll get out of you what I want to know. One way or the other. Everyone talks eventually.’
With that he left Burton to Decker and climbed the stairs to Demetrius. He found him in one of the extra upstairs bedrooms, the one he kept just for times like this. His oldest friend was awake and completely immobilized. Decker had shackled Demetrius’s feet and the wrist of his uninjured arm to the bed frame, while his injured arm and his body were restrained with three leather belts that wrapped under the bed and over his torso, groin and thighs.