Endings by Linda Richards (portable ebook reader .TXT) 📗

“Don’t worry about it for now. I’ve seen a naked man before. I’m not expecting you’ll offer up any surprises.”

“I’m thirsty.” It is a snivel. A better person would feel badly about how good that makes them feel. I don’t go there. It just seems better not to.

“Yuh. I guess you would be thirsty by now.” And I’ve anticipated this and am ready. I toss him a plastic bottle of water. “This should help.”

He opens the bottle, dropping the cap to the ground, then turns it up to his face so quickly, a third of the water splashes down his front uselessly. It is like watching a dog drink, if dogs had opposable thumbs. But watching him I think that a dog would be more efficient.

“You’re going to take a shower.” I hook a thumb at the RV behind me. “And don’t get any ideas. I rigged a camera in there. I’m going to watch you.”

“But my rights …” he says again, though he sounds less sure this time. I can see that he is wondering if, just maybe, he might not get any rights, after all.

“You don’t have rights, asshole.” My voice is flat. I don’t recognize it. “Not out here. The only ones you’ll have are the ones I’ll give you. Now go shower up.” I use the muzzle of the Bersa to point the way, feeling tougher than I intended. And also feeling less so.

I’ve left a bar of soap for him in the tiny bathroom, a towel and a couple of sheets, and, as I told him, I rigged a small camera in there, as well. I managed to hide the camera neatly in the molding and I am proud of my work. Unless he really goes hunting for it, he is unlikely to see it at all.

He does as I directed. I’d been counting on him being hungry enough and in so much pain that he wouldn’t put up much of a fight. That had been part of my plan, as well. Because a real fight between us with him at full strength would see me losing handily, and that’s not conjecture. So I don’t take any chances, and I use every advantage I have.

When he emerges from the bathroom, his skin is pink and rosy and he’s fashioned one of the sheets around himself into a sort of crude toga. It will do.

The injured shoulder is open to the air and I can see the beginning of an angry infection there. I have to work quickly. I don’t need to be a doctor to tell me that, without care and antibiotics, Atwater won’t be much good to me or anyone after a couple more days.

I am standing at the front of the RV and toss him one of the Walmart sandwiches, indicating he should sit at the table. He snatches the ham-on-rye out of the air and barely takes the time to pull the plastic off before wolfing it hungrily. I am glad that he is well enough that he still feels like eating.

I keep my distance, the gun in one hand, and I’m starting to realize the magnitude of the task I’ve taken on. It dawns on me that it is possible that watching him could be a full-time gig for a few days. I have acted on impulse and, to a certain degree, on instinct. And now I am fully committed, but at what price? And where does this road lead?

I give him time to eat the sandwich and drink a couple of bottles of water before I get down to business.

“There’s pen and paper just to your right there,” I say. “See it?”

He nods.

“I’ve got a list of missing children here. We’re going to go through this list together. You’re going to tell me about those missing kids and where they are. Or use the paper to write things up if it helps the process.”

He looks at me with an expression so incredulous it shifts towards the comical. I want to knock the look off his sick, smiling mug. I want that so badly I can taste it. So badly it makes me question my own wellness, but only for a beat.

“Why would I do that?” It comes out over a sneer. Like a teenager questioning bedtime, but even less endearing.

It is a valid question, though. I’ve thought that part through and am ready with an answer.

“Because I’m going to hurt you, William. If you don’t tell me. I’m going to hurt you in ways you can’t even imagine.” I drop my voice to a whisper. I can see him strain to hear me. “The things you did to those kids? Those things will pale in comparison to the hurt I’m going to rain on you.”

He shrugs. He doesn’t care. I have ways to make him care, but I know instinctively that’s not the place to start. So instead, I ignore the shrug. I ignore the insult implied by his carelessness. I ignore it and begin as though he hasn’t responded at all.

“Kandra Smithe,” I say, reading from the top of my list.

“The name doesn’t mean anything to me,” he says right away. He’s looking in the other direction and his voice is flat. Distant. I can’t determine anything from the tone.

I look at him. I’d put her at the top of the list because, of the kids that are still unaccounted for, little Kandra had been the one with the strongest clear connection to Atwater. She was four when she disappeared three years ago. The daughter of one of Atwater’s former babysitters, the little girl and her mother had lived down the block from him in a trailer at the back of a neighbor’s property. There had been lots of clean lines between Atwater and the missing girl. And her body had never been recovered. But I look at his face now. There is nothing. It’s like looking down an empty well.

“I don’t believe you.”

He shrugs.

“Maybe you