Thirty-Two

Mike eased the door open as if he was scared of what he’d find on the other side. I was with him on that. With my luck, Elijah would be sitting there waiting for us, bone-saw in hand. I shook off that thought and pushed past Mike. By this point, I didn’t care what or who lurked behind that door. I wanted Luke.

The smell hit me first, stale and rancid. It was dead silent—the sound of my own footsteps on the cement floor was the only noise—and pitch dark. I stumbled around blindly, searching for the light switch.

“Luke?”

I waited for a response, for anything that would indicate we’d come to the right place. No sound, not even a whimper to tell me which direction to turn.

I purposefully shut my mind down and refused to process the smells, the silence, everything my brain was trying to force onto me. Luke was fine. He’d been stuck down here with no windows. No ventilation. No bathroom. Of course it was going to stink, but he—was—fine.

“I need a light,” I yelled.

“There isn’t one,” Joseph said as he stepped inside and adjusted the tiny flame of a lantern. “This place was intended to be quiet and completely dark so you’d have nothing but your conscience to distract you.”

The lantern flared to life, coating the walls in an orange glow. I followed the light as he swung it from one wall to the next, hoping that it would land on Luke.

The light flashed over something solid in the middle of the room. I grabbed the lantern from Joseph and ran toward it. My feet slid out from underneath me, and I fell to my knees on the wet ground. Both my palms hit the floor and I lost control of the lantern. The light flickered twice before it steadied. Warmth seeped through my skirt, and a dark stain seeped through the stark white fabric as a rusty metallic smell filled my nose.

My body stiffened in recognition. I knew what it was—that dense, dark liquid that was now coating most of my lower body. I put my hands down anyway, flattening them against the floor and into the moisture. They came up red. Bright red and dripping. It was wet, not sticky or dried. I grabbed onto that knowledge and forced myself to lift my head. Then I screamed.

“Mike!”

He was there in an instant, pushing me out of the way as he tore at the restraints that bound Luke’s feet to the chair.

“I need more light,” he yelled, and I held out the lantern, my arm brushing Luke’s leg. It was cold and stiff. I squeezed his calf and waited for his muscle to twitch. Nothing. I dug my nails into his thigh, thinking a bit of pain would bring him around, awaken him from whatever sleep he was in.

“He’s not moving,” I choked out. “Mike, do something. He’s not moving.”

“I know. Help me get him untied.”

Mike had Luke’s feet free and was frantically working on his arms. They were stretched back and bound so tight that I wondered if his shoulders were dislocated or his muscles torn.

I squatted down next to Mike to help, but my hands were shaking so badly that I couldn’t maneuver the rope. Tears streamed down my cheeks and my entire body convulsed with terror, anger, and remorse.

“Dee, let me,” Joseph said as he took my hand in his. He wrapped my fingers around the handle of a second lantern and gently pushed me aside before taking my spot and manipulating the knots himself.

“Luke?” I whispered. Through the shadows, I could see that his eyes were open. His head was slung forward, his jaw slack.

“Luke?” I said again.

The panic slowly welled in my soul, and I reached out to touch his face. My hand molded to his cheek, a day’s worth of stubble rubbing against my palm. Even that couldn’t drive away the coldness of his skin.

They say that the dead look peaceful and relaxed, as if they’ve passed onto a better place. But that’s not what I saw when I looked at Luke. What I saw was agony. Pure, unadulterated agony.

The ropes finally gave way and Luke slumped forward, his entire body falling into my lap. I struggled under his weight and ended up in the stale pool of blood, Luke cradled in my arms.

He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and for a brief second I let myself believe that’s why he was so cold. The cellar was damp and unheated. If I warmed him up, if I could get his body to accept my heat, then he’d be fine.

“It’s okay, baby,” I cried as I held him to me, rocking him and willing my strength, my very essence, into him. “I’m going to take you home. It’s all going to be fine.”

I wrapped my arm around his waist, anchoring him to me, while my free hand searched for a pulse. I silently pleaded, would’ve gladly bartered away my own life for one small movement of his chest, one tiny tick of a pulse. Even a gasp of pain would’ve been welcomed.

There was blood, so much blood. I could barely find the spot beneath his jaw I was looking for. I settled my finger there and held my breath as I waited for the faint beat of life.

“Oh God.” I tried again, my fingers slipping to the other side of his neck as I hoped beyond reason for something I knew wasn’t there.

I gave up trying to find a pulse on his neck and reached for his wrist. I’d watched Luke take his own pulse a thousand times. Always on the wrist, always the same spot.

A hand on my shoulder stopped me, and I twitched, jerking off whoever it was. I could do this. I could prove Luke wasn’t gone. The hand came back and latched on so hard that I had no choice but to turn and look.

“Dee,” Mike said. “Let me see him.”

“No,” I cried out. I wasn’t letting anybody have him. Anybody.

“Dee, let go. Please, God, let me see him.”

Mike’s voice cracked, and I looked up, saw the sheen of tears threatening to overwhelm him. I shook my head and held on tighter. Luke wasn’t dead. There was no reason for Mike to lose it. No reason for the tears slipping down his face. Luke wasn’t gone. He wasn’t. I wouldn’t let him be.

“Let go!” Mike screamed, prying Luke from my arms. I went at him, intent on getting Luke back. I needed Luke! I needed to feel him against me. Luke was mine. He belonged to me.

Joseph caught me around the waist and pulled me into his chest. I turned my anger on him, hurling every foul word I could think of at him, but he simply held me tighter, whispering for me to calm down.

Mike sat down and leaned Luke against his own chest, then put his ear to Luke’s mouth in search of a breath. He hovered over him for what seemed like an eternity. Slowly, his hand slid to Luke’s chest, vainly seeking the muted thump of his heart, the expansion of his lungs … something, anything, that would indicate that we had time.

Mike finally shook his head, his face pale as the tears poured from his eyes. Like I’d done, he gathered Luke up in his arms and rocked him, quietly swearing against all that was sacred and holy to kill the person who did this.

“No. NO! ” I thrashed in Joseph’s arms, kicked at his legs as the gut-wrenching realization hit me. Luke was gone. My boyfriend. My life. My everything. Gone.

One good kick to the shin and Joseph let me go. I fell to the ground and crawled to Luke. I went to take him, to pull him into my arms, but Mike wouldn’t let him go. He pushed me away with the heel of his foot and dragged Luke farther into his arms, buried his head in his brother’s neck and sobbed.

I slammed my fists into the ground and screamed. The pain searing through my hands and knuckles was barely enough to keep me conscious, to keep what little sanity I had left from slipping away completely. I pulled myself up and covered my ears to drown out Mike’s cries. It didn’t work. His guttural pleas bounced off the cold walls, piercing my soul. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It. Wasn’t. Supposed. To. Be. This. Way.

I went for the only thing I could reach—the lantern—and threw it at the wall. Small pieces of glass rained down to the floor, but that didn’t help. The rage inside me was building, drowning me, and I went for the chair.

It was bolted to the ground, but I yanked anyway, throwing all my energy into ripping it from its anchors. I screamed and tugged again, the force jerking me forward and straight into Joseph’s arms. I pushed at him, would’ve thrown him through the wall if I could’ve.

“Stop, Dee. Please, stop,” Joseph said as he pulled me into his chest again and folded his arms securely around me. “I promise it’s going to be okay.”

He kept chanting those words as if his assurances were what I needed. They weren’t; the only thing I’d ever needed was lying there dead.

“It’s not okay,” I sobbed as I turned my head to the side and looked down at Luke. “It’s never going to be okay again.”

Luke’s body lay limp in Mike’s arms, his struggle clearly visible in the wounds defiling his skin. I knew exactly what the three-inch slits lining his body were. Elijah had bled Luke with no restraint or regard. I had seven wounds on my arms. Three on the right and four on the left. But Luke was covered in them. His arms were a mess of crisscross patterns, his chest marred and soaked in blood. His hair had been cut so short that parts of his scalp were visible. His shoes were gone, his skin red and broken where he’d struggled against his restraints.

I focused on the thin red lines around his wrist, memorized them rather than look at his hands and confirm what I knew to me true. With one deep breath, I looked down and gasped. His middle finger was gone, a clean white bandage covering the wound. His whole hand was clean, not a mark or scrap of dirt on it.

I reached out and unwound that bandage, several inches of gauze falling to the floor. I ran my finger across the palm of his hand. It was exactly like I remembered—soft and calloused at the same time. I let my hand play down each one of his intact fingers before stopping and looking at what was missing.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. That son of a bitch had taken off Luke’s finger, then had the insane decency to stitch the wound closed. Why bother? Why the hell would you bother to patch him up if you only intended to let him die?

He was insane. Elijah Hawkins wasn’t a religious zealot; he was completely crazy. And crazy wasn’t something you could reason with.