Grief hot-wired Bernie’s rage. Robin had been a dear friend, an early disciple of Peter’s. He hadn’t participated in the murders or the torture. He’d just liked to watch. Women liked him and sometimes, Peter had used Robin as a lure for some wholesome little chickadee who didn’t stick her thumb out for a ride.
The tire iron dragged through the dirt.
If only Bernie had been with Peter when that slut had been wiggling her ass up and down Route 97.
The pipe bomb had exploded, but the cop hadn’t been injured. Her husband had instead.
Maimed.
That’s what the news reports were saying. It had a delicious ring to it. Bernie smiled. See how the bitch dealt with getting her loved one fucking “maimed.”
The tire iron was heavy. Unyielding. The noise it made as it dragged over the ground made Bernie think of an ancient sword being drawn over rock.
Sandra Warren should be dead. Fernando Chavez should be dead. Dominic Sheridan had murdered Robin and found Peter’s grave and should be dead.
Things were not going to plan.
Bernie walked out of the forest and toward Sheridan’s house not stopping, instead increasing the pace and using the momentum to pick up the iron and swing it at Sheridan’s bedroom window. The glass shattered, the alarm went off. Bernie moved on to the next one.
Every smash satisfied something dark and resentful inside. Three windows, four. Glass shards rained down, but the ski mask and gloves protected face and hands.
Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. The alarm shrieked as the last window shattered.
Bernie stood back and took a long gulp of air, knowing cops were on the way. The tire iron went into the pool, and Bernie backed away from the devastation.
It wasn’t Sheridan’s blood, but it was a message. They weren’t done yet. It wasn’t over. He wasn’t fucking safe.
The shadows in the woods cloaked the line of retreat. By the time the cops arrived, Bernie would be long gone.