Vendetta
He got closer, still wondering why Entwistle wasn’t moving—until he was within arm’s reach. The Ox moved with a lunge, grabbing for Harold’s wrist. Harold reacted instinctively, yelling for Norman while trying to pull his wrist out of the way. Sick, exhausted, weak, and bound, Entwistle missed and started to fall forward, twisting to the side when Norman’s frantic grab seized hold of his long hair. Harold, off balance himself, fell forward, the knife slicing deep into Entwistle’s side, cutting from his ribs to his navel.
“Perfect!” Harold cheered.
Entwistle landed on the floor with a hard thud, an arm clamping reflexively over the wound.
“Norman, the dirt, if you please.” Harold grabbed Entwistle’s hair and jerked his head upward. “William died from infection—feverish and delerious, wracked with agony as his systems shut down one. By. One. You, sir, will die the same way.”
Norman returned almost immediately with a handful of dirt he’d collected from outside. His face twisting with triumphant glee, he ground it into John’s side. “That should do you in, you piece of filth,” he snarled.
“Put him back into the grate, Norman. And make certain his clothing rubs that wound.”
“I have a better idea,” Norman said. He pulled a knife from his pocket and cut Entwistle’s grimy jacket away. “Cold might help it along.”
Harold nodded. “Leave him his shirt.”
“Come on, get up,” Norman said, giving Entwistle a hard kick. “I’m not carrying you back.”
Harold watched as Entwistle shakily got to his feet. The man moved with a dignity that even the humiliating treatment couldn’t erase; he straightened as much as he could, his head held high, his gaze level.
Harold reached for words—words that would return him to righteousness, words that would once again restore him as the good guy and Entwistle as the murderer. And yet watching the man limp and stagger to the door, still moving under his own power despite everything that had been done to him and everything yet to come, he suddenly had no words to say.
And when they were gone he was left with only doubt and unanswered questions.
Pete sat back against the seat and closed his eyes. Six houses in the last two hours had yielded nothing. They were either well-less or had wells that were too narrow to hold a person, much less a person as big as John.
Only one house had not cooperated at first. The teenage son recognised the Who and had made certain the patron of the house realised these were not four scruffy troublemakers. Then his father had cooperated.
They walked around the grounds, trying to ignore the teenager’s excitement and eager questions to focus on their task. The house had a single grated well, but one only three feet square. “We keep the pups there when we’re gone,” the teen said.
Keith turned and walked away, quickly heading back to the car.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said, catching up to him. “Is there anything I can do?”
Pete smiled. “We’re just worried about our friend.” They hadn’t dared tell anyone they were looking for John for fear that the newspapers or television would get wind of it. “Listen, why don’t you come on down to the Crown and Cushion in a week or two and we’ll buy you a nonalcoholic drink and give you all the stories you can hold.”
Keith raised his head. “Yeah. And I’ll teach you a lick or two on the skins.” He favored the other with a wan smile and they exited the front gate, leaving a very happy boy behind.
They piled back into the car silently, Keith crossing off that house from their list and sighing when he saw how many there were left to search.
Twenty-eight. In this town alone.
Pete rubbed his face. As much as he didn’t want to say anything, he was beginning to suspect that more dreams would give them the only chance of narrowing it down.
Roger sighed. “We need to rest. If we have to break him out—we can’t in this shape.”
Keith looked out the window at the setting sun. He wanted to keep going, but at the same time he was weary and his head ached something fierce.
They found a bed and breakfast nearby and checked in. The innkeeper was too old to recognize them, giving their long hair a suspicious look before leading them upstairs. “Only got one room so it’ll have to do for the three of ya,” she grumbled. “Breakfast’s at seven so mind you come down because when I put it up that’s it.”
“I’m an early riser. I’ll make sure they’re up,” Roger assured her.
She grunted and wobbled off, hiking up the skirt of her old housedress as she descended the narrow steps.
“We’ll find him.”
Pete staggered over to the narrow bed and flopped down with a sigh, burying his face in his arms.
A moment later, a gentle hand was rubbing his back. He couldn’t tell if it was Roger or Keith and at the moment didn’t care. He was both exhausted and terrified of what sleep would bring, but as the hand continued to rub, he found that he couldn’t fight it any longer. When he was asleep, Keith removed his hand and curled up beside Pete. Soon he, too, was in a fitful, worried slumber.
Roger collapsed into the chair in the corner, rubbing his face before settling in to watch his friends. The chair was lumpy and poked him in the back, but that was all right. Anything to keep him awake and aware.
Two hours later, both began to fidget.
Roger just sat and watched, unwilling to interfere right away. Their last dreams had brought them this far—maybe one more would be what they needed to find John.
Keith whimpered, curling into a ball. If the Dog had had a tail, it would have been curled around him protectively.
Pete mumbled, tossing and turning restlessly, his long features pinched into a tight frown.
Keith sat up, shaking. Pete awakened with a howl. Keith started, then shook his head to dispel the cobwebs. Pete was panting, his narrow chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes wild in the dark.
“What did you see?” Roger asked him.
Pete’s hollow, haunted eyes slowly fixed on him. “He’s dying.”
Keith’s eyes were just as haunted. “Fast.”
“Well, uncle, you were right. Weaken him, then injure him. He won’t last long now.” Norman came into Harold’s study, leaning his rifle against the sofa before sitting, propping up his trainers on the small table. Harold winced; Norman could be loud and uncouth, with no respect for the antique furniture in the house that would someday be his. Harold shuddered to think what would happen to it then.
“Did you make sure the grating was secured?”
“Not that it matters,” Norman replied. “He couldn’t push it open if it were made of paper.”
Harold frowned, irritated at Norman’s flippant tone. “You heard what Mistress said. This one is sneaky. She said not to take any chances.”
“I know what she said,” Norman said defiantly. “I heard her.” As it always did, when the subject of Mistress came up Norman’s green eyes grew faraway and dreamy. Harold knew that Mistress had offered him his father’s place in her business, but Harold had expressly forbade it until Norman was done with school. He didn’t entirely trust Mistress for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on; despite talk that she was a businesswoman, he’d never heard anyone mention what exactly it was that she did. And sometimes, though he’d done his best to hide it, William had returned from “business” trips with bruises or other wounds. He’d always covered it up with reasonable, logical explanations, but nothing about it had ever sat right.
And Harold had never said anything. William was his own man, and Harold stayed out of other people’s business until they came along and shattered his family and made it his business. “So you heard her,” he said to Norman, “but did you obey?”
“Yes,” Norman sighed, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, uncle, don’t you trust me?”
Harold was surprised to find that his instinctual response was ‘no.’ “Of course I trust you. I just want to make sure your father gets his vengeance, that’s all.”
“He will,” Norman said darkly. His hand slid over to the rifle, one finger carressing it. “If he tries anything I will shoot him down.”
Harold stood. “Norman, have you ever killed anyone?” He held his breath for a moment, almost fearing the answer.
“No, but there’s a first time for everything,” Norman said.
“Well, I have,” Harold said, referring to his war experience that while not quite the same as killing hand-to-hand, still gave him that advantage of authority. “And it’s not something to take lightly. It changes you. You can’t just kill someone and go about your day. You don’t ever forget it.”
Norman looked up, his eyes blazing not with the same hatred Harold felt, which was borne of righteous, justified anger and a thirst for justice, but of plain naked hatred. It terrified Harold to see such an inhuman look on his nephew’s face. “I won’t forget killing him like he killed my father. He’s going to pay, and I’m going to watch. I’m going to be there when he draws his last breath, and I won’t rest until he’s only a memory.”
Was he really a murderer?
He thought, letting the notion pull him in. He remembered fighting the man. Remembered his dark blond hair and his handsome Nordic features. He remembered that unlike most of Mistress’s henchmen, the man had been neither dull nor bragging. He hadn’t said much of anything as he had fought John, making the Ox pull out every trick he knew. John remembered the struggle over the man’s knife, how a twist had cut his opponent, felling him and giving him the opportunity to get away.
He’d gone straight to help Keith and Roger, not giving the man a second thought. He knew deep down that had the same thing happened again, he’d have done exactly the same thng.
It wasn’t his problem. Being attacked by someone intending to hurt or kill you didn’t make you responsible if you won. And yet . . . the man had died. Because of him. And now he was dying just as surely, from a wound that was a mirror image.
He coughed weakly, his body shaking beyond his control. His fever had begun to rage out of control, making his teeth chatter loudly in his head. His side ached with fire and the site burned angrily red—when he could stomach the sight of the wound. Mostly he just kept his arm clamped against it to control the bleeding. After Norman had pushed him back in, he’d used the rest of the water to wash the wound as best he could while he was still able to touch it.
He tried to shift position, but his body wouldn’t move more than a little. He tried not to retch as the move made him even more dizzy. There was nowhere to lean that wasn’t wet or dirty or hard, making any kind of comfort impossible. For just a moment he was overtaken by the sudden desire to cry.
He gave in to it long enough for his eyes to fill with tears, then he blinked them away. He had to hold on. They were coming. They were coming.
It was now a mantra.
They were coming.
He had to hold on.
On to Chapter Five
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