That would have been the end of it, had not Jed spoken to Andrew. Fearful that Yukiko had suffered similarly Andrew had confronted her and learned the entire shocking story. Being a man who believed that family was everything, he could not let the brutality go unpunished. Yukiko and Rose had contacted the other girls who had been harmed by Peterson — the plan being to bring the man to justice — but some of them feared the repercussions and the scandal the story would bring should they speak in an open court. Respecting their wishes, Andrew and Jed had concocted another plan. They had contacted the husbands and brothers of the women instead. They formed their own lynch party.
Charles Peterson had no idea how long he was in the back of the van. Hooded, his arms bound, his body aching from where he’d been bodily lifted and slung on to the hard bed of the van, he could do nothing but feel sorry for himself. Never once did he feel regret for despoiling the girls, his only regret being that his past had finally caught up to him. He had tried to plead, but his begging had fallen on deaf ears, merely earning him a kick in the gut from one of those guarding him. Another time he’d been pulled over on to his back, held prone, and one of the enraged men had punched him in the balls. He kept quiet after that, his only sounds the soft sobs he couldn’t hold in.
At one point during the night, he wondered if Michaela had returned to the trailer with the boy yet. Would she realise something had happened to him and call the police? Little chance of that! She would be glad he was out of the way, probably hoping that he never came back. Bitterly he wondered if she had anything to do with this. Wouldn’t surprise him, though he’d no idea how she’d have any knowledge of his former life. Whatever, he couldn’t hope for her to send anyone to his rescue. He was alone and couldn’t think of a way out.
Finally the van stopped.
Peterson wasn’t relieved; he’d rather the van kept on going for ever.
The sack muffled his captors’ voices, but he could hear the urgency in them, and his sobbing rose to a high-pitched wail.
Someone leaned close. ‘Don’t expect pity, you bastard. Did the little girls cry like that when you were tearing their insides apart?’
The doors were opened and cold air bit into his sweat-sodden clothing. Hands grabbed him and he was hauled out. They didn’t take away the sack, only marched him bare-footed across soil littered with jagged stones. Recalling the words from moments before he bit his tongue to hold back the yelps, but he couldn’t and was crying again by the time he felt smooth stone beneath his soles. Someone pushed him forward and he stumbled, finding nothing but air beneath his feet now. He fell face first down a flight of stone stairs, his body whacking painfully on every step.
Feet clattered down behind him and hands seized him and dragged him up. Peterson was moaning, not so much from pain, but from realisation that the end was getting near. He wasn’t religious in any sense, but if there was a hell he knew where he was heading. Hell on earth in the next few minutes, at least.
His captors were still speaking among themselves, partly in argument, but he could not hope that any of them were having second thoughts. They forced him across a floor that rang hollowly to their footsteps. Then he was twisted around.
‘Do you know where you are?’
Peterson recognised the voice of the big man. He was too fearful to answer.
‘Let me show you.’
The sack was yanked from his head and Peterson blinked at the invasion of light. His spectacles had been knocked askew, and there was nothing he could do to right them. Someone had brought a flashlight and was flicking its beam around a small room with bare concrete walls daubed with faded graffiti. The ceiling was low overhead with wooden beams upholding a floor of warped planks. Peterson had no idea where he was.
‘Don’t you recognise it? You can’t have forgotten about your time at Rohwer?’
The big man was standing in front of him, pointing up at the ceiling. ‘The buildings are gone now. They’ve been gone for years, demolished and carted away and hidden: struck from history for the shameful things they were. But this cellar survived. We found it easily enough. A girl who was raped in an adjacent building showed us where she used to hide from you, Charles.’
‘No, no, it wasn’t me. You’ve got the wrong man. Whoever put you up to this is mistaken.’
A different man came forward. ‘Are you calling my wife a liar?’ Flat-handed, the man struck him across the cheek. The blow was more a shock than it was painfuclass="underline" there was something decidedly insulting about a slap — men traded punches, girls slapped.
‘I’m not saying that… just that she’s made a mistake.’
Yet another stepped forward. ‘I guess mine is mistaken too.’
This man struck him, and the slap tore the glasses off Peterson’s face and sent them spinning on the floor.
Hurting, Peterson stared back at the line of men standing before him. There were seven in total. Only seven. He was glad that all that he had hurt had not come back to haunt him.
One of the men was holding a chain.
Another carried a stool.
Yet another a gasoline can.
They walked behind him and Peterson did not have the courage to look. He heard the stool thud into place and then one of them step up on to it. When he heard the links of the chain rattling over the ceiling beams he closed his eyes. He was still standing thus when the chain was looped round his neck.
‘Take a step back, Charles.’ It wasn’t the big one now, but a stocky man whose face held more than a touch of the Orient in it.
Peterson mewled, but did as he was told.
‘Now step up.’
‘No, please. Oh God, no!’
‘Do it!’
One of those behind him, the one who had carried the gasoline, grasped Peterson by his shoulders and pulled him back and up on to the stool. As he did so, the man snapped. ‘My name is Tennant. I want you to take that name with you when you die, so you know who it was that killed you. Motherfucker, you deserve worse than this for what you forced my sister-in-law to do.’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’
‘You don’t, huh?’ Tennant struck him in his lower back. ‘You don’t remember raping a young woman who was so ashamed she took her own life afterwards?’
‘What? Who… your sister-in-law? But… but you’re an American!’
‘So was she, you sick bastard!’
‘They were the enemy!’
The big man suddenly held up a hand. ‘Finally we’re getting to the truth.’
‘No,’ Peterson cried. ‘That’s not what I meant. I’m not admitting to—’
Tennant struck him in the back again, pain flooding him, digging into his liver like a lance.
The Asian holding the chain reeled in the slack. The screech of links over wood was harsh, like the breath that caught in Peterson’s throat. ‘Don’t… do… this…’