The Babysitter Page 19

Watching a mostly unconscious body being pulled up by the arms looked a lot like a corpse coming back to life. They sit up then get to their feet, then start to dangle.

  I got him about two and a half feet off the ground before tying him off.

  I'd thought the ripping pain in his shoulders would be enough to drag him out of his drug-induced sleep. The irony of that wasn't lost on me either.

  He'd taken Meadow.

  He'd drugged her.

  I'd taken him.

  I'd drugged him.

  Those horse tranqs worked wonders.

  I had to invest in some more.

  Not that I intended to be doing a helluva lot more killing, but, hey, you never really know, do you?

  "Wake up, sunshine," I growled, flipping my knife into my palm and reaching upward, slicing a gash through his eyebrow.

  That seemed to penetrate.

  "Oh, relax," I told him as he groaned with his eyes closed. "It's barely more than a paper cut," I added, watching as consciousness came to him again, as his eyes shot open, huge, bulging out, hazy for only a second as his system fought off the drugs. His instinct was to pull against the pain at his wrists, a fruitless, waste of energy move that made his whole body flop around like a fish on a dock, only managing to make the pain in his shoulders no doubt increase in intensity.

  "Who the hell are you? What are you doing to me? Where are we?"

  "That's three questions. Unluckily for you, Vincent, I am only obliging enough to answer one. Choose wisely."

  I imagined it was the hollowness in my voice that had him going stiff, had his jaw tensing.

  "Why are you doing this to me?"

  "Meadow Holland," I told him, moving up to his body, swiping his blood off my knife on the breast of his jacket before reaching to undo the button. "Does that name ring a bell?" I asked. "Here, let me refresh your memory. You did something like this to her," I told him, pulling backward, cocking an arm, and swinging.

  The angle wasn't optimal. I couldn't get full force.

  But it was enough.

  Even half force was enough to send his body spinning, make a string of curses erupt from his mouth.

  "I don't know what you heard, man, but I've never met some bitch named Meadow Holland. And I've never hit a woman."

  He was convincing as a whole.

  Psychopaths usually were.

  They wouldn't get away with half as much as they did if they weren't.

  "Hm. Well, that's a shame then. Because I have my heart set on this. So, I think we're going to go through with it anyway," I told him, reaching for the front of his dress shirt, dragging the sharp end of the blade upward, popping off the buttons, seeing the shirt fall open.

  And there it was.

  Sure, I'd never seen it in person.

  But I saw a picture of it from a few decades ago.

  And I had heard Meadow describe it in detail.

  A plain silver wedding band, rubbed with age, blackened even in spots on a simple chain.

  The mother fucker was wearing her grandfather's old wedding ring, the one he'd wanted her to have as a good talisman with the hopes that, someday, she would find a love story like he had shared with his wife.

  And this bastard took it as a trophy.

  Swallowing hard, so I didn't just sink the knife into his liver and lungs, end it right then and there, I cracked my neck.

  "You know you're only supposed to take a trophy if you kill your target," I told him.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Or, do you actually think you killed her?" I asked, watching the way his eyes flared. "You did, didn't you?" I laughed, the sound creepy even to my own ears.

  I was losing it.

  Maybe Quin was right.

  Maybe there would be no coming back from this.

  It had been so long since I had been this person. And in the past, this heartless monster I turned into only existed on orders. Pain and torture were a job.

  This was personal.

  And maybe it would change me permanently.

  But who would even notice anyway?

  It didn't matter.

  Whatever the consequences, this mother fucker didn't deserve to breathe what was left of this Earth's clean air.

  I wouldn't be able to sleep knowing that he was out there, walking around, looking for a new target, someone else to torment, and this time, maybe kill.

  "Your cut had hesitation marks," I told him, eyeing my blade. "It's the mark of an amateur. See this?" I asked, stabbing the knife into the tough pectoral muscles on his chest, dragging down a few inches. "No hesitation marks at all," I told him over his screaming. "I'm not an amateur. Know what is good about that?" I asked, not waiting for an actual answer, of course, seeing as he was still hissing and cursing. "I know just how much I can do to you without killing you. Or making you pass out from the pain and blood loss. It's no fun if you're unconscious," I informed him, digging the tip of the blade down one side of his jaw, the other.

  The begging began then.

  The begging always came. The timing was different for each person. Hardened criminals, people whose lives depended on keeping secrets, they took longer. You were usually coated in sweat and blood by the time they finally cracked, started praying for their lives.

  It wasn't as satisfying when it came early.

  But, hell, it was still something like music.

  Not many people got to play at God, got to choose someone's expiration date. It was a heady thing, that taste of power. And, oddly, you wanted to drag it out. You wanted more of it.

  I wasn't fully aware of carving up his chest. The slicing was a bit of an adrenaline-fueled blur, but when I was done, I was happy with the result.

  For Meadow.

  My penmanship - or knifemanship - could use some work. The letters were as amateur as a kindergartener's, but it was a good look just the same.

  "Why are you such a sick fuck, huh, Vincent?" I asked, watching as his chin dipped to his chest, head bobbing around. "No no no," I told him, slapping my hand against the side of his face, the impact on the cuts making him cry out. "We're having a conversation here, Vincent. It's rude to fall asleep in the middle of a conversation. Didn't anyone tell you that? Anyway, where were we? Oh, what made you a monster. You know, I guess it doesn't really matter. I'm more curious about why Meadow."

  "Let me down. If you let me down, I will tell you anything you want to know."

  "Well, see, that's not how this works. Usually, in these kinds of situations, it's the guy with the knife who makes the rules. And see, I have the knife," I reminded him, running it along the soft flesh between two ribs. "Why Meadow? Did you know her? Stalk her? Meet her at her bank? How. Did. You. Know. Her?"

  "I didn't!" Vincent shrieked. "I didn't know her! Saw her getting out of her car in an abandoned lot one morning. That's it! I didn't know her!"

  Somehow, I imagined, being stalked might have made it easier to swallow, deal with, move on from. Just some sick psycho who thought you ticked his boxes.

  But being a victim of happenstance? It would make it hard to walk down the street without suspecting everyone else.

  I mean, not that Meadow would know all of this.

  I didn't want her to know.

  That I could get this ugly.

  That I could take pleasure in pain when it was necessary.

  And when someone hurt her, it was necessary.

  I would mail her back her necklace, of course.

  And maybe I could have Miller inform her that she'd never have to worry about the bastard again.

  "Is she the only one?" I asked, watching as he struggled against the knots around his wrists. He'd never get free. But you almost had to admire the arrogance to think a little wiggling around would get him down when all the spinning from beatings hadn't loosened them in the least. Losing patience, I curled a fist, slamming it into his spleen.

  It was a sucker of a punch that didn't take a whole lot of strength, but created a fuck
vua lot of pain. "Is she the only one?"

  "Yes! Yes. I... she was the first. And there hasn't been... I've been working. And..."

  "Christ," I sighed, losing interest suddenly.

  Leaning down, I pulled the tarp, unfolding it, using it as a drop cloth.

  "No! No, man. I promise. I won't ever do it again. I won't. I've learned my lesson. I can change. You don't have to do this!"

  "I don't have to," I agreed, nodding as I moved into position. "But I want to."

  He met his end the same way that he intended for Meadow to meet hers.

  Luckily for her, he was not skilled.

  Unluckily for him, I knew what I was doing.

  And I didn't hesitate.

  The blade stabbed in, sliced upward, tearing through tissue and organs.

  His scream of pain was likely heard by every creature for miles.

  It wasn't a quick end.

  Gutting someone tore through vital organs, but nothing that caused nearly instantaneous death. Liver wounds were always fatal if untreated. But my money was on him bleeding out before then.

  A slow, miserable death.

  You pass out eventually, right before you finally lost enough blood to die.

  I double-checked before I cut the body down, hearing the thud hitting the tarp, the splat of the blood splashing around. Luckily, not far enough to splatter all over the forest floor. It didn't wash in as well as you might think it would.

  And men like Vincent, well, people would miss him. People who didn't actually know what he was like, of course. But they would report it, make a fuss. It would hit the papers. He had a good face. People would mourn the loss of a pretty boy with a fat wallet. They'd call for justice. And in case dogs ever came around, you really just didn't want blood everywhere.

  That in mind, I carefully wrapped the tarp in on itself, sealing off all the ends with duct tape, preventing any leakage as I dragged the body.

  By the time I finally got the body undressed, removed the teeth to scatter in some lakes, and dug a nice, deep hole where no one would think to look, I took the tarp to the lake, washing it off, chucking some teeth. On the walk back, I dealt with the others.

  As much as I hated waste, once I cleaned up, handled the animals again, I had to drive back out of the Barrens once more.

  I had to toss the tarp, the needle nose pliers, the clothes, the rope, syringe. I'd keep the tranq bottle since that led back to me. I had to toss the plates, the clothes I had been wearing, everything.

  So wasteful.

  But necessary.

  It would have made my life easier had I taken Quin up on his offer to lend out Finn.

  But within a day, it was all over.

  All just another memory.

  Just another black mark on my soul.

  But it didn't give me nightmares.

  Some things were just, even if they were ugly.

  --

  It was two days later when my phone beeped on the counter.

  I wasn't surprised to see it was Miller.

  I was surprised, however, to find it wasn't her usual tirade against my character.

  You?

  The text had a screenshot of a news article.

  - Will you be done being mad at me if it was?

  No. You're still a fuck, but at least a little good came out of this.

  - Have you been keeping an eye on her?

  I was annoyed at myself for asking. I had no right to. I lost the privilege of knowing about her life the day I made her leave.

  But I couldn't pretend that it didn't bother me. Not knowing. If she was getting the help she needed. If she was on the path to recovery.

  Or if the opposite happened.

  If she refused to reach out, if she let the memories eat at her, if she was getting darker, if she was putting marks on her skin, turning to pills or bottles, or, and this was unthinkable, thinking thoughts of self-conclusion.

  It had only been a few days, I reminded myself as it took Miller ages to answer me. Or maybe it had been longer. It had to be well over a week, maybe closer to two.

  She's back at her place.

  - That's not an answer.

  She's back at her job.

  - Still not an answer.

  What do you want to hear, Ranger? That she's a zombie in heels? Because she's a zombie in heels. She does her job, she shops, she fakes smiles at clients and strangers in the grocery store, but her eyes are hollow. There. Is that what you wanted to hear?

  - Yes.

  Now you know why you're a fuck.

  That was the end of the conversation. But, let's face it, not the end of the thoughts.

  She wasn't getting better.

  But it hadn't been that long.

  She likely couldn't even get in to see a shrink in that time. Not a decent one anyway.

  A zombie phase was to be expected. Especially since she had been in the woods, hiding away from the world for so long.

  She would be okay.

  Eventually.

  I had to believe that.

  Because if there was one thing I was pretty sure might break me in this life, it was the guilt attached to her never getting better.

  She hadn't been a zombie in the woods. With me. Her smiles had been real.

  But that didn't necessarily mean it would stay that way forever. That the nightmares wouldn't get worse, wouldn't take a toll, wouldn't start to ruin her waking mood too.

  And by then, she'd be too attached.

  To the life, to the woods, maybe to me.

  I didn't want to be the fuck who kicked her out, but I also didn't want to be the fuck who let her stay even if I knew it wasn't healthy for her.

  I'd done the right thing, damnit.

  "I know, bud," I agreed, dropping down on the couch later that night where Captain was already curled, sticking his nose into the cushions, taking a sniff, trying to get her scent again. "I miss her too," I admitted.

  It felt more real to say it out loud.

  It put words to the aching hollowness I felt inside. Like a part of me left with her.

  Which was ridiculous, of course, but that was how it felt nonetheless.

  Reaching in my pocket, I drew out the ring on a chain, turning it in a circle, running my fingers over it, picturing her touching it. She did it without realizing even though the necklace had been missing. When she was unsure of herself, when she was sitting drinking her coffee, staring off into space, maybe thinking about her grandfather. Her hand went to the center of her chest out of habit.

  I had no right to be keeping it from her.

  But it was all I had left.

  Well, the ring and Captain's sighs and Gadgets sad bleating and Red's newfound attention to my ankles and the tiny little chamomile seedlings starting to pop up out of the dirt.

  I promised myself that the next time I went into town for supplies, I would mail it out.

  Then I could move on.

  Or, at least, that was the story I was telling myself.

  Sighing, I got back up, walking aimlessly around the cabin, looking for something to do, some way to occupy my time.

  It wasn't bad during the daylight hours - when I could throw myself into physical work, could beat myself ruthlessly until my body couldn't take any more strain.

  The nights were hard.

  I'd gotten accustomed to her, to having someone around, to bounce ideas off of, to share stories with. And, let's face it, to curl up with, to touch, to be touched by.

  I hadn't ever craved it before.

  But her?

  Fuck, I craved her.

  More than I could have ever known was possible.

  This house, this place that had always been my sanctuary, all I ever needed for a full, rewarding life, felt empty, felt cold.

  Like, I guess, me.

  "Fuck," I growled, running a hand across the back of my neck. "Not right now, bud," I called to Captain who had jumped off the couch to make his way to the door, sniffing at the crack. "You were ju
st there," I reminded him when he let out a low whine. "Come on. You want a bone?" I asked, turning to reach up into the cabinet.

  And then the unthinkable happened.

  Not only unthinkable.

  Impossible.

  There was a knock at my door.

  My first thoughts were of my guilt.

  Of cadaver dogs and teeth and buried bodies.

  And, of course, cops.

  My heart stuttered at that, but, I reminded myself that cops generally didn't knock politely at the door.

  Lost hikers and campers didn't usually make it out this far.

  It wasn't impossible, just unlikely.

  Maybe one of my coworkers?

  They knew the way.

  They would knock.

  Taking a steadying breath, shushing the barking dogs, I made a slow path toward the door, steeling myself for any possibilities.

  Or so I thought.

  Because I never, not in my wildest fantasies, could have imagined what was awaiting me as I grabbed the knob, turned, pulled the door open.

  And there she was.

  It was the Meadow I knew with a few small changes. She had on tight-fitting jeans, trendy-looking camel-colored boots, a form-fitting white tank top under a sweater that matched her shoes. Her hair was a little straighter. And there was the unmistakable traces of makeup on her face - darkening her light lashes, her blonde brows, covering up the dark swatches under her eyes from sleepless nights.

  Captain nearly charged at her, stopping short of jumping up, knowing he was strong enough to knock her down. Her hand reached out automatically, rubbing at his ears, but not taking her gaze off me.

  Miller had been right, there was a sadness in her eyes, something that hadn't been there until I had kicked her out.

  It killed me to see it there now.

  But that was a thought for another time.

  Now, well, now I had to think about why she was here... how she was here.

  "How are you here?" I heard myself ask, my voice low.

  "I had directions. Well, I mean, there isn't a proper way to get directions in the woods, I guess. But between Gunner and Finn and Miller, I had enough 'Turn right at that giant spooky tree that looks like it belongs in The Addams Family' and 'when you see the burning bush, keep going straight until you reach a small rock formation' type instructions to be able to piece together something that was workable. Except then I got lost. I don't think I ever would have made it here if I didn't see the light. You never have the lights on."