Deviation (22 page)

Dianne dropped the bottle, urgency once again claiming
her. If she didn't manage to do this now, Frank was as good as dead.

She glanced down at her ruined hand, barely even
recognizing it. It was badly misshapen and already beginning to
discolor and swell. The sight of the swelling frightened her most of
all; if it swelled up, there'd be no way she'd get out of the cuffs.

Steeling herself against another monumental onslaught
of pain, she tired to pull her mangled hand through the bracelet. It
slid further than it had in past attempts, but it still wouldn't fit.
She screamed uncontrollably as the broken bones shifted, the pain
almost causing her to black out. Her vision went cloudy and she
vomited again, this time a watery gruel that spilled out her open
mouth and splashed down over her breasts and into her lap.

Not allowing herself to think about what she was doing,
she reached over with her free hand and took hold of the throbbing
mess that was her left hand. She squeezed it, her screams taking on
a new dimension as she manipulated the bones and cartilage into a
slimmer, more streamlined format. She pulled again, harder, trying
to force it through. As devastating as it was, as much as the raw
pain threatened to render her unconscious from sheer shock, she still
managed to experience a tiny thrill of victory as her wasted hand
finally slid free of its shackle.

She held it up in triumph, still screaming, tears
coursing down her face.

She was free.

Knowing she had no time to lose, she sprung into action
at once. Doing her best to ignore the sickening waves of pain that
radiated from her hand, she got to her feet and staggered around to
the other side of the bed. She reached under it, using her good
hand, and felt around for Frank's gun. She found it at once and
pulled it out, checking to make sure the safety was off. She had a
feeling she'd be firing it very soon.

She was wearing nothing but a pair of panties, stained
with her own vomit. It crossed her mind to put some clothes on; they
were right there on the bedroom floor. But then Frank screamed
again, this time loud enough to rattle the windows. She abandoned
the clothes, doubting she'd be able to pull them on with only one
hand anyway, and raced through the open door.

* * *

Dianne wasn't sure where Frank was being tortured. She
was still unfamiliar with certain parts of the house. When she found
herself in the hallway, she turned quickly to the other bedroom, the
one where the Brenners were being held.

The door was closed. She tucked the gun into her
armpit and then turned the knob, throwing the door open. She took
two steps into the room before freezing. If there had been anything
left in her stomach, it probably would have made an attempt to
vacate.

The Brenners were all dead. Someone had slit their
throats. Not just their throats; someone had enjoyed killing them.
They were sliced up arbitrarily, gashes all over their faces and arms
and chests. Blood was everywhere. The whole scene caused her to
experience vivid flashbacks of what she'd done to Cliff. She had to
lean momentarily against the wall to avoid fainting.

She would have remained there for a moment, but the
Brenners had lost control of their bowels during the slaughter, and
the room was pungent with the stink of shit and death. Dianne backed
out, a hoarse choking sound escaping her throat. She fled down the
hallway, fear and hatred and disgust battling with the pain pulsing
through her with every beat of her heart.

* * *

“There,” Pastor McKenzie said admirably.
“That's almost perfect.” He set down the hammer and
stepped back, taking a good look at his handiwork.

The crucifix was leaning against the far wall of the
garage, standing almost fully upright. He'd used a collection of
ring bolts and wire to hold it in place. Nailed to it, and hanging
miserably by his arms, was Father Frank. The nails had been inserted
just above his wrists, between the two bones of his forearms; his
ankles were bound together with several loops of wire. His body hung
down severely, all his weight being supported by his stretched arms.
He was barely able to draw breath, due to the hyper-expansion of his
chest muscles and lungs.

“How do you like it, Frank? Does it suit you?”

Frank was unable to answer. The pain was impossibly
huge, and he felt himself slipping toward unconsciousness. It would
be a blessing, and he did nothing to try and fight it.

“Yes, I think that it does.” McKenzie
stepped over to the workbench and retrieved the knife he'd used to
kill the Brenner family. It was one of their own kitchen knives; a
Chef Master. The rubber grip felt very comfortable in his hand.

“Tell me, Frank. Would you like to hang there
and enjoy watching me kill your little girlfriend? Or would you
prefer that I kill you, so you don't have to witness it? Because
I'll tell you right now, if you don't answer me I'm going to bring
her in here and butcher her right before your eyes.”

Frank tried to move his head and failed. He couldn't
speak. He could barely even breathe. He tried to take some of the
weight off his forearms by pushing down with his legs, but there was
nothing there to support him. He made a low, mewling sound in the
back of his throat, hating himself for not being able to protect
Dianne.

“Very good, Frank.” McKenzie stepped
closer to him, running one finger over the blade of the knife. “You
didn't really think I was going to let her live, did you? What kind
of monster would I be if I did that?”

No response from Frank.

“I think I like the idea of removing her breasts.
Disgusting things, aren't they? Too bad she's not a little boy.
Then I could really have some fun with her.”

He stepped closer and poked Frank in the stomach with
the knife. Frank didn't even flinch. A small bead of blood formed
where the knife had punctured his skin.

“What'll it be, Frank? I'm giving you a choice
here. I'm willing to put you out of your misery before turning her
into 130 pounds of chop-meat. But you've got to answer me.”

He jabbed him with the knife again, this time sinking
the blade in half an inch. Blood ran from the wound, trickling down
over Frank's abdomen to the waistband of his boxer shorts. If Frank
felt it, he gave no sign.

“Speak up, Frank! Otherwise I'll go and get the
little bitch right now. I'll drag her in here by her hair and force
you to watch the whole show.”

Frank tried to speak again, but there was simply no way
to do it. His entire chest was on fire. He sucked in more air, his
throat making a shrill whistling sound.

“Okay, Frank. Have it your way.”

McKenzie turned away from him at the very instant the
garage door swung open. From where Frank was positioned on the
cross, he was able to see Dianne as she stepped into the room, a look
of abject horror on her face. She stared at him for what seemed a
very long time but couldn't have been more than two seconds. She was
almost completely naked and she had Lester's gun in her right hand.
Her left hand was red and swollen and obviously broken. He felt an
immense surge of pride in her, and in her ability to free herself.
It was something he himself had failed to do.

“Frank!” she screamed.

McKenzie gaped at her, at first not realizing who she
was. How could she have possibly gotten out of his handcuffs? No
one had ever done that before, and he'd used them on multitudes of
people, most of them with much smaller hands than Dianne. He took a
step toward her, his mind spinning.

Dianne saw him advance and wasted no time. She raised
the pistol and braced herself for the recoil. She fired one shot,
the noise of it like a thunderbolt echoing clamorously off the garage
walls. She watched as McKenzie staggered back, a small spray of
blood leaping from his shoulder. He looked down at it, stunned.

“Stop!” he commanded. He took another step
back, returning to his position beside Frank. He was still holding
the knife in one hand. “Drop it or he's dead!”

Dianne fired again. She was lost in a world of pain
and desperation. The sound was somehow even louder this time, and
the bullet ripped a chunk of meat from the Pastor's jaw. She'd never
fired a gun before and was surprised at how easy it was. She took a
step forward and fired again, this time clipping the Pastor in the
elbow.

McKenzie screamed and slashed out with his knife. The
blade opened up Frank's belly and a massive assemblage of bloody
intestines spilled out, sliding down his legs and splattering wetly
to the concrete floor.

This time it was Dianne who screamed. She ran forward,
firing again and again. One of the bullets missed entirely, but the
other hit McKenzie right in the cheek, throwing his head back and
sending a great spray of blood and muscle tissue over the shelves of
tools behind him. He fell to the ground, his knees coming down right
in the ropey mess of Frank's guts. He was staring at Dianne as she
finished closing the distance between them. She was the last thing
he saw before her next bullet tore through his nose and blew open the
back of his head. Then he collapsed, his body dropping lifelessly to
the ground.

Dianne moved right up to him, her finger still on the
trigger. She fired once more, the bullet disappearing into the meat
of his chest. She was weeping with outrage and a hundred other
emotions that were congregating in her head and threatening to
overwhelm her. When she finally realized the Pastor was dead, she
threw the pistol aside and straightened up. She stared at Frank, who
hung motionlessly from his cross.

“Frank!”

Frank was dying. His body had turned white as the
blood continued to run out of him. He was looking at her, a sad
smile trying to form on his mouth.

“Oh, god, no!” She reached up and touched
him just below the collarbone, very gingerly. “I'm so sorry!
I'm so...” She began crying, tears streaking down her face.
“I don't know what to do!”

His eyes beginning to roll back in his head, Frank
forced himself to crane his neck. He was only able to do it a tiny
bit. It took almost the last of his strength.

She looked at him, knowing there was nothing she could
do. He was only seconds away from death, the blood still trickling
out of him. “Oh, Frank. I'm so fucking
sorry
...”

Frank was trying to say something. His lips were
moving, but no sound was coming out.

Dianne moved closer, almost pressing against him. Her
face was very near his. “What is it, Frank? What can I do?”

He looked into her eyes. It was extremely difficult
for him to do, because his own eyes were now without any real focus.
They looked haunted, as if the real Frank was already gone.

“Don't...” he croaked.

“Frank...”

“...don't... “ His whole body hitched and
his eyes snapped shut.

“Frank!”

He was still alive. Just barely. He was fighting to
speak.

“Frank, just relax.” She realized how
stupid it sounded. She began to cry harder. “Please don't be
in pain. Oh, god, I'm so sorry...”

“...don't...let them...get you...” His
voice was nothing more than a faint whisper.

She looked at him, watching him die. “I won't.
I promise, I won't.”

“...run, Dianne. Run. You've got to...”

He stopped, his eyes losing any remaining clarity.

Dianne screamed. She staggered away from him, too
horrified to dare look at him again. She slumped to the floor near
the workbench and crawled underneath. Somehow, the gun she'd thrown
had ended up there and she reached out and grabbed it, holding it to
her like a baby.

She couldn't take any more. She hated this world and
everything in it. She squeezed her eyes shut and wondered what the
barrel would feel like in her mouth.

Dianne was unaware of time
passing. She was only aware of her own misery. It was everywhere,
worlds of it, crushing her from every angle. She was curled up under
the workbench, holding the pistol in her one good hand. Her other
hand was pulsing and throbbing with a sickening mercilessness that
made her think it would never end. It would just go on pulsing and
throbbing for all eternity and she'd lie here in this godforsaken
garage in Sterling, Colorado with the body of Frank and the atrocious
pastor decomposing in the far corner.

She sat up, bumping her head on
the underside of the bench. “Fuck!” She'd never been so
wretchedly miserable in her life.

She glanced around, the horrific
scene before her causing her to start weeping again. If she wasn't
going to end it right here and now, she needed to get moving. It was
Frank's final wish. He'd told her to run.

“God,” she
whispered. “Where will I go?”

She wiped her face, knowing
there was no time to even think about it. Not now. If the police
hadn't been dispatched yet, they would be any minute. All those
gunshots would not be ignored.