Deviation (21 page)

“Easy. You're both stupid.”

“That doesn't answer the question.”

McKenzie looked at him, his eyes blazing with ill intentions. “Your
cell phone. You should have ditched it, or at least kept it powered
off.”

“Fuck!”

“Fuck indeed. Tell me, Frank. Have you ever been hog-tied?”

“I think we ought to discuss this. I can help you, you know.”

“How? You're a burned-out old relic, handcuffed to a drill
press.” McKenzie lifted a long handled screwdriver and held it
up, studying it.

“There are many things I could do. I could talk to the
police. I could --”

“Do you remember little Timmy Patterson?”

The question caught Frank off guard. “Timmy...?” He
seemed to vaguely recall a boy by that name from years past. A
small, dark haired boy whose parents took him to St. Paul's.

“Ah, little Timmy,” the Pastor said fondly. His eyes
lightened and a cruel smile slowly spread across his face. “You
should have seen him near the end. He'd lost his legs, did you know
that, Frank? His arms, too, the poor boy.”

Frank already felt sick, but now he felt his knees grow weak and his
stomach lurch. He tried desperately to think of some course of
action that would save him.

“I was surprised by how long he lived without his limbs,”
the Pastor continued. “Days and days. Eleven, if I remember
correctly. But he wasn't the same. Gosh did he cry a lot! For some
reason you remind me of him, Frank. Do you think you'll cry?”

Frank remained silent. He wanted a drink very badly.

“That's alright, Frank. You don't have to answer. Anyway,
Timmy and I had a great deal of fun together. Maybe not him, so
much, but I certainly did. So much fun! Do you know how he finally
died?”

No comment from Frank.

McKenzie grimaced in the sickly yellow glow of the single bulb,
which hung naked from the ceiling alongside a thin chain. “I
chewed his throat open. I didn't even think about what I was doing;
it was pure impulse. Call it the will of god.”

Frank only stared. He knew any further display of weakness on his
part would only encourage the Pastor. He resolved himself not to
plead for his life again, no matter what happened.

McKenzie set down the screwdriver. “His death came as a great
relief to him, I'm sure, despite the screaming. I'm thinking yours
will soon be a similar relief.”

“As will yours, Pastor.”

McKenzie grinned at that. “Very good, Frank. Now you just be
patient for a little while, alright? I really have become inspired
by all these miraculous supplies.”

Frank watched from his place near the workbench as the Pastor began
gathering 2x4's from a stack in the corner.

After Frank had been led from the bedroom, Dianne spent a few
minutes experimenting with the handcuffs that were now holding her
prisoner in the same house she was holding the Brenners prisoner.
They were steel cuffs, and the bed frame was iron. There was no way
she was going to break either of them, and there was also no way her
hand was going to slide through the tight confines of the bracelet.
The old pedophile hadn't locked them as tightly as he could have, but
he didn't leave them loose, either. She tried manipulating her hand
in every possible way in order to slip free of them. When she folded
her thumb up into the palm of her hand and contracted it as much as
the bones and muscles would allow, it gave her the sense it could be
done, but the steel still bit deep into her flesh, rendering escape
impossible.

There was a keyhole, she noticed; one in each cuff. She glanced
around on the nightstand, searching for a paperclip or a bobby pin or
anything she might use to try and pick the lock. There was nothing.
She moaned in despair and rolled over, trying to assess whether or
not she'd be able to retrieve the gun from beneath the other side of
the mattress. She thought that if she could obtain the gun she might
be able to blast through the chain. It was a king-sized bed,
however, and her arms were only so long. There was no way she was
going to reach it.

“Shit!” She pulled at the chain again, her wrist now
raw and beginning to bleed. This wasn't part of her plan. Feeling
trapped, and useless, and almost completely hopeless, she lowered her
head and began to cry.

* * *

Dianne wasn't sure how long she sat there crying. It couldn't have
been more than a few minutes. She might very well have gone on
weeping and feeling sorry for herself all day, but a series of
disconcerting noises coming from somewhere else in the house cut a
furrow through her gloom and she sat up, once more focusing on her
dilemma. Someone was hammering. Frank was probably in mortal
danger. She had to do something now, before it was too late.

She pulled again at the cuffs. The pain in her wrist now burned
like fire. Her skin was bright red and slick with blood. She
thought excitedly for a second that the blood might lubricate her
wrist enough to be able to forcibly slide her hand through. The
thought passed as quickly as it had come; the bracelet was far too
tight to permit such an uncomplicated escape.

She let out a wail of frustration as the dull sound of hammering
filled the house. What the hell was going on out there? She began
searching around again, her eyes scanning the room with renewed
desperation. Her bottle of rum was there, on the nightstand. She
grabbed it without thinking, twisting on the bed to reach it. She
used her teeth to remove the cap and let it fall to the floor. Then
she filled her mouth with the amber fluid and swallowed, her throat
burning and her eyes watering. It hit her head and her stomach
simultaneously and she came close to vomiting. Closing her eyes, she
gave things a moment to settle. When the nausea passed she took
another, smaller gulp. This time it went down easier and her head
buzzed with a moderate sickness. She set the bottle down on the
nightstand and yanked open the top drawer.

She didn't know what she was looking for. If there was anything in
the drawer that could be used to get the handcuffs off her wrist, she
didn't see it. It appeared that this side of the bed belonged to
Kim; the drawer was filled with snack cakes, puzzle books and
tissues. There was also a diary there, with a built-in lock. She
shoved everything aside, digging through the mess in search of
anything that might aid her. If there was a key to the diary, it
wasn't in the drawer. She emptied it out, item by item, being as
meticulous as possible.

From elsewhere in the house, the hammering went persisted. The
sound was like a warning to her, and when she'd succeeded in emptying
the top drawer she pulled it out and checked the bottom and sides.
No key. She threw it aside and opened the larger, bottom drawer.
There was nothing in it but a collection of nightgowns and an extra
set of bed sheets.

Dianne cursed aloud, jerking on the chain again. If she kept it up,
she thought she might end up breaking her wrist.

The thought gave her an idea.

She reached for the rum bottle again, her mind now racing as quickly
as her heart.

* * *

In the garage, Douglas McKenzie set the hammer down and stepped
back, regarding his little woodworking project. It was rudimentary
at best, made with nothing but 2x4's, but it was good solid
construction. It was functional, and that's what mattered.

“What do you think, Frank? Do you like it?”

Frank stared at it from across the room, saying nothing. He felt
dead inside, and knew with a hollow certainty that he wouldn't live
to see another day. This was it. If he'd known he was going to die
at the hands of Pastor McKenzie, he would have murdered the man years
ago.

“What's the matter, Frank? Would you rather I just slit your
throat?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad.” McKenzie lifted the crucifix and carried it
closer to where Frank was chained to the drill press. It was very
tall, almost tall enough to reach the ceiling, and he was forced to
tilt it at an angle to avoid bumping it into the rafters. “I
think it's rather appropriate. Don't you?”

“No.”

McKenzie leaned it against the workbench. It was eight feet tall.
“This is going to be a bit awkward, I'm afraid.”

“We don't need to do this, Pastor.”

“I'm afraid we do.” He went back to retrieve his hammer
and a handful of long nails. “I'm sure you're already familiar
with the horrors of death by crucifixion. It's a very slow,
agonizing experience. It will give you plenty of time to reflect on
your sins.”

Frank was staring at the crucifix. “How do you intend to get
me up there? Surely you don't think I'm going to hold still while
you hammer in the nails?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Good luck with that, Pastor.”

“Like I said, it's going to be a little bit awkward. At least
initially. Why don't you go ahead and put your free hand up there,
Frank? You know where it goes.”

Frank stared blankly. “I don't think so.”

“Please, Frank? Do it for the old days. For the good times
we shared together.”

“Go fuck yourself, Pastor.”

McKenzie hoisted the hammer. It was solid steel, with a rubber
grip. “Put your hand up there, Frank. Otherwise I'm going to
go pay your girlfriend a little visit. When I come back, I'll have
one of her breasts with me.”

A deep, consuming hatred spread through Frank. It was shot through
with fear for Dianne's life. He couldn't allow such a thing to
happen to her.

“If a breast doesn't convince you, old boy, I'll put in
additional visits to her. I'll bring her in here piece by piece if I
have to.”

The thought of this sadistic butcher dismembering Dianne was too
much for him. He didn't need proof, either; he knew without question
that McKenzie would do exactly as he had threatened. Frank lifted
his hand.

“Good boy, Frank.”

“Just promise me one thing.”

“You're in no position to negotiate.”

Frank lowered his hand.

“Frank...”

“One thing, Pastor.”

“What?”

“Just promise me you'll let her go when you're finished with
me. I know your promise is nothing but shit, but promise me anyway.”

McKenzie smiled. “I have no reason to harm her. She's
nothing but a bargaining chip. Put your hand up there and I promise
no harm will come to her.”

“You think I believe you?”

“I don't care whether you believe me or not. Put your hand up
there or I'm going to go in there right now and cut off my first
piece of her. Last chance, Frank.”

Feeling sick with rage, his teeth gnashing together with such force
that bits of them were beginning to break loose, Frank lifted his
hand and set it in place.

Smiling, McKenzie held up a nail and pressed it against the soft
underside of Frank's wrist.

Dianne was staring
at her hand. It was a pretty hand; beautiful, even. She liked it a
great deal. The last thing she wanted to do was destroy it.

She took another
big gulp of rum, the bottle nearly empty now. She'd never gotten
drunk so quickly in her life. It wasn't a good drunk, either. It
was a sickly, putrefying drunk. She grimaced and drained the last of
the booze from the bottle. It was going to be critical to do this
quickly, or she was going to lose her nerve.

“Fucking
shit,” she muttered. She pictured Douglas McKenzie in her
mind. She'd only met him briefly, but she thought she hated him more
than anyone she'd ever come across, except maybe for Cliff.
If
I get out of this alive,
she
thought. It occurred to her that the Brenners were probably thinking
the exact same thing about her. She tried to shut her mind off and
focus on her dilemma.

She studied her
hand again. It was too big to fit through the cuffs. She needed to
make it smaller. Her thumb was in the way, too. It would have to be
modified.

As drunk as she
suddenly was, she still didn't know if she'd be able to go through
with it. It went against all her base instincts. She lifted the
empty bottle up in the air, holding it by the neck. The glass was
extremely thick. Thick and strong. Stronger than the frail bones of
her hand, that was for sure.

“Oh, god,”
she moaned. “My fucking hand.” She began to cry softly,
the bottle poised in the air, ready to strike. “I'd ask for
your help, god, but the priest in the other room told me you don't
care. Based on my own experiences, I believe him. And the other guy
in there, that Pastor of yours...”

A loud scream
suddenly pierced the air, causing her blood to run cold. She almost
dropped the bottle. It was Frank's scream, she was sure of it. The
Pastor was killing him

“Oh, fuck
fuck fuck!”

The tears in her
eyes almost blinding her, Dianne brought the bottle down with all her
strength. As shaky and nauseated as she was, her aim was nearly
perfect. The thick glass bottle collided solidly with the base of
her thumb, just where the bones connected with those of her hand.
There was a sickening crunch as they shattered. The pain was
excruciating; she felt it everywhere. She screamed out, not even
aware she was doing it. Then she lifted the bottle and struck again,
shattering her hand further. She could feel the bones splintering
like ice.

For a moment, she
was so immersed in pain that she felt her entire body go numb. Then
the pain swept through her in a wave and she leaned forward, vomiting
up the rum she'd just consumed all over her bare legs. She made a
sound then that didn't seem like it could have possibly come from
her; it was the most miserable, gut-wrenching moan she'd ever heard.
It was almost immediately followed by another blood-curdling scream
from Frank.