“Are you insane?” Ilse heard the voice shout.
Ilse blinked, her vision adjusting from the cramped, misspelled words in the margins of the holy book, and now fixated on the lanky, baseball-cap wearing figure in the door. Her sudden panic, the scream lodged in her throat slowly melted away.
She began to heave breaths, hyperventilating and shaking where she stood.
Agent Tom Sawyer had one hand at his hip, resting against his weapon, his other finger though was jabbing towards where Ilse remained upright at the head of the kitchen table.
“You trying to get killed?” he demanded. “Is that it? Some sorta death wish, doc?”
He marched towards her, breathing wildly, his chest heaving and eyes darting around, taking in the horrible contents of the dingy shack in the middle of the national forest. Now, he was so close, Ilse could smell the odor of sandalwood and stale coffee. She winced, still rapidly breathing, blinking as if to readjust her own vision, to refocus.
“I—I,” she stammered, desperately, a mixture of horror and relief flooding her now.
She'd never been so happy to see someone in her life.
He was still snarling, still screaming at her, but Ilse couldn't help herself. With a sob, she lunged in, wrapping her arms around his thin form. She was shaking so badly now, she couldn't see straight. Still hyperventilating, she half-caught another scream of, “I'm not gonna do it, doc! Not gonna! Won't lose another one of you on my watch, alright! Not fair!” he was still yelling but didn't push her away.
It was a strange interaction, her shaking, leaning against him, her arms wrapped around the lanky FBI agent if only to have something to cling to, like a ship anchored to a dock in storming seas.
Sawyer was breathing heavily now, too, and, for the moment, no longer screaming.
He swallowed, his chest rising and falling. Then, with a mutter, he said, “You should've waited, Ilse. You can't do that shit. You... you can't.”
He placed a hand on her back, holding her now, and Ilse felt tears forming unbidden in her eyes. She swallowed, trying to bite back the welling emotion.
Such a strange thing to feel safe in a monster's home...
And yet, Sawyer provided just that feeling. There, leaning against him, surrounded by horrors and blood, she felt... safe.
His other hand moved away from his holster, and he gripped her tight, still breathing heavily as if he'd sprinted up the driveway at a breakneck pace. She could feel the bandage on his arm where he'd been slashed with glass. Could feel the way he angled his body, to avoid pressing his bruised ribs too tightly.
But he still held her, no longer shouting, no longer screaming, just breathing heavily as she trembled.
“I can't lose you,” he murmured. “I've been through that before. I can't do it again.” His voice sounded strained, laden with something that went far deeper than just the few weeks she'd known him.
“I'm sorry,” she murmured, softly. “I’m sorry... B-but Sawyer?”
“Mhmm?”
“I—I think I know where he's going next. He has another victim in line. We have to stop him.”
Sawyer let out a long, heavy breath, his shoulders drooping a bit beneath her trembling arms. He pattered her gently on the back, then, carefully extricated himself, one hand already moving towards his pocket. His other hand trailed against her arm, as if just to make sure she was still there.
She looked in his eyes and for a moment, in his deep, forest green gaze, she spotted a far-off fading look, as if he'd been seeing something that wasn't even there.
He blinked, and the expression vanished. He stared at her, frowning for a moment as if confused. But then, lifting his phone, his hand still lingering against her arm, like a child looking for comfort, he said, “It's your show, doc. I'll call for backup. Where we going?”
***
He stepped up the old, familiar slab stone steps, whistling quietly beneath his breath. The nighttime breeze ruffled his hair, and he stretched, slowly, hefting the black duffel bag in one hand. He turned, glancing towards the parking lot. His bike was chained to the old, wooden donation box where parishioners would often drop unwanted clothing.
He stared at the box, frowned, took off both his shoes, approached the box and slipped them through the plastic lid.
He nodded briefly as he stared at the pictures of the smiling children wrapping around the donation bin.
That done, he turned again, barefoot, moving away from his chained bike, away from the parking lot once more, back up the stone slab steps and to the doors of the church.
He began whistling again. The same tune as always.
A light was on inside the main building. Father Edward often stayed late. He taught Bible studies well into the evening anyway. But now, the parking lot was empty, save a single, black sedan. The father's car.
They would be alone.
He reached out, pushing on the front door to the church. It swung open, slowly without so much as a sound. Barefoot, he stepped onto the tiled ground within, allowing the door to swing shut behind him.
There, on the small, wooden stage in front of the pews, he watched an older gentleman stowing a pile of books beneath a dusty, glass podium.
The father was whistling too, some old church hymn, beneath his breath.
Inside voices... He smiled. He'd always liked the father more than the others. He hadn't kicked him out of Sunday school for months. And when he had, he'd even apologized. Very polite. Mr. Capriso wasn't so nice. He had yelled a lot, screamed a lot, ridiculing Duncan.
Duncan's nose wrinkled at the memory. Mr. Hubbard had been mean, too. He'd once slapped Duncan for getting a question wrong. Well... partly for getting the question wrong, partly for sticking his hand down the pants of the girl in front of him.
They'd kicked him out from schools, failed him from classes. He couldn't even remember now why Father Edward had told him to leave the Sunday school class. Mr. Peltari had been polite, but he'd been upset when Duncan had stepped in the tomato garden. Then, he'd been more upset the second time Duncan had done it. It wasn't his fault—he'd like the way the red things had squished and splattered. He'd even thrown a couple at one of the other student's seeing eye dogs.
Duncan smiled at the memory, at the way the dog had squealed, at the way the tomatoes had squished.
Expelled, failed, kicked out, barred from entry...
All of them thought they were in charge. They could treat him just like his dad did.
Stupid! Worthless little shit! Inside voices—I have a headache. Inside voices! Come here. Come here, bitch!
The beatings were nothing. He'd long grown accustomed to pain. The screaming was nothing. He'd grown accustomed to silence. But his father had eventually gone quiet...
Eventually, when he'd grown bigger, larger, even Daddy had stopped talking.
Daddy had tried to kick him out, too. Kick him from the house.
That was how all of it started, anyway.
He was tired of being told to leave. Tired of being yelled out, mocked, failed, ridiculed, excluded.
Tired of not being invited to parties, not being allowed to participate.
Just so tired of it all.
“Oh, hello there, can I help you?”
Duncan looked up, frowning in the direction of the old man with his bushy white eyebrows. He was still half bent, locking the books behind the cabinet. “I'm afraid we just finished, actually,” the old priest said, smiling now. “Can I help—”
He straightened, but then went still, frowning.
Recognition. Sometimes they recognized, other times they didn't.
Duncan eyed the old man's hands... Yes... Tonight would be the hands.
“Duncan Robinson?” Father Edward said, his eyes narrowing, tilting his head. “Are you all right, son?”
Duncan went stiff, staring. His teeth pressed against each other, hard. “Not son!” he said, scowling now. “You're n-not my daddy!”
Father Edward hesitated, frowning briefly, but folding his hands slowly. “You look tired, Duncan. Can I get you something to drink?”
“You're not my daddy!” he yelled, louder now. He stared at the old priest then, reached for his duffel bag, unzipping it and pulling out the well-worn hacksaw. He lifted the device, glancing at it up and down.
Clean. Very clean. He'd always been good with tools.
“Duncan...” Father Edward said, hesitantly, his eyes widening beneath his bushy brows. “Hang on, son; what are you doing?”
Duncan winced as if slapped. He'd said it again. Son. The liar! What a liar!
“You're not my daddy!” he howled at the top of his lungs, the hacksaw clutched tightly in once fist.
Father Edward began to step back, slowly, his eyes darting towards the door behind the keyboard on the stage. He swallowed nervously, glanced across the pews towards where Duncan stood.
Duncan began to move, breaking into a jog, sprinting towards the old man.
The priest yelped and turned, trying to bolt towards the open door, but he tripped over his own glass podium and was sent sprawling to the ground.
Duncan picked up the pace, hollering at the top of his lungs, “You're not my daddy!”