Wicked Man (12 page)

appointment at a clinic, you deleted their existence. How dare you?

How fucking dare you!”

“I did what I did because you’re insane, Billy,” she flung back

at him. “You’re a heroin addict, not to mention you’re also a criminal.

I didn’t want
my
child to have your blood. You hurt people. You hurt me. You didn’t own me, so I made the only choice I could make at the

time. I was in no place to raise a child and you certainly were
not

father material.”

“Damn you. I own every inch of you, from the top of your

head to the bottom of your feet. Every part of you I own!”

She shook her head. “You never owned my heart. Chadwick

owns it.”

It was, perhaps, the wrong thing to say. Fury lit up his face

and he raised his fist. She didn’t even have a chance to try to defend

herself as he punched her right in the jaw. Pain exploded through her

head as darkness consumed her once more.

****

one eye. The other, she realized, had swelled shut. As she tried to

move, her legs weren’t cooperating, and she realized not only were

her hands bound but now here ankles were too. She wouldn’t be

walking anywhere soon.

A figure appeared in the doorway, and Abbott had to squint

her one good eye to clear the blurriness. Billy came into sharp focus

and her breath hitched in fear as she saw a needle, a spoon, a lighter,

and a bag of tan powder. She shook her head, although the pain

almost made her vomit.

“No, Billy,” she pleaded, past the swelling in her jaw. “You

know I’m allergic.”

He snorted derisively. “You’re not allergic. I just hit a vein

last time.”

“I broke out in hives, remember? And threw up all over the

place. The doctor said it was an allergic reaction. Please don’t put that

stuff in me.”

“Shh,” he said. He sat down next to her and began to prepare

the heroin mix. “Once you’re flying you’ll remember what it was like

between us. Remember how good it was, before you took away my

child?”

“Get the fuck away from me!”

Abbott tried scooting back, but her body wasn’t cooperating

fully. Her mind screamed at her to try and escape but her limbs were

numb from lack of blood circulation.

Then he opened up the bag of syringes and extracted a new

one. He drew the drug up before straddling her. Abbott fought, but it

was like battling a vicious cyclone. A helpless, hopeless struggle. The

needle pierced her arm and she cried out. The heroin burned going in,

and immediately, her arm began to swell. Fire licked under her skin as

a red rash appeared, and then little blister-like bumps rose up. They

itched like the devil but she couldn’t scratch them.

Finally, the drug kicked in and everything began to fade. Her

mind became numb, and it was almost a blessing because all she

wanted to do was rip her arm off. From far away, she heard Billy’s

evil chuckle.

“See?” he taunted. “You’re my girl again.”

Wick’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled over to

the side of the road. The name Mac flashed across the screen so he

shut down the bike’s engine to hear what the tech wizard had to say.

“Tell me something good,” he said, reining in his desperation.

“I got her location. I’m sending you the location. We’re stuck

in some kind of traffic jam so we’ll be there when we can.”

“No worries. I’ve got it.”

Wick revved the motor. As soon as the map came through on a

text message he took off. He knew the backroads of Stevens better

than anyone, and it didn’t take him long to realize he was riding

toward the old farmhouse off Country Road Z, the very one where he

and Abbott had almost consummated their love back when they were

teenagers. The coincidence was almost unbelievable, if it wasn’t for

the fact that he was dealing with Billy Walker. They’d once gotten

into a fist fight when they’d been in the eighth grade when Billy had

pulled the American flag down from in front of the school and

stomped on it, all in the name of Freedom of Speech. Wick hadn’t

cared about the no fighting policy at school. He’d stomped Billy’s ass

in front of everyone because he refused to have the American flag

desecrated.

Two years later, when he’d been dating Abbott, he and Billy

had crossed paths again, in the farmhouse off County Road Z. The

man had looked at Abbott like she was a piece of meat, and Wick’s

blood had boiled. When they’d graduated, he thought he didn’t have

to think about Billy Walker any more.

He’d been so fucking wrong. It was time to end it, one way or

another.

Wick parked his bike in front of the rundown house and killed

the motor. The rumble ended, leaving a silence that grated on his

nerves as he dismounted from his bike and drew his gun. He held his

nine millimeter down at his side. Moving quickly to the nearest

window, he peaked through the broken shards of glass that still hung

in the rotten frame. Nothing moved and he almost thought he must be

wrong. Surely if Billy wanted a showdown then it had to be

something different than
this
place. Then a soft scrape came from

somewhere inside, and he knew he hadn’t been wrong. Everything

right and wrong had started in this house so it seemed like a fitting

place to end it.

He brought his gun up and eased up the broken porch stairs to

the door. He nudged it open a little with his foot, keeping to the side

in case Billy had the bright idea to shoot at him, but when no bullets

came flying his way, he cautiously glanced inside. Threadbare boots

peaked from the living room, so Wick made his way forward, his

senses on high alert. The stairs that led up to the second floor lay

toward his left, but other than a quick once-over to ascertain they

didn’t hide anyone, he made his way to the living room.

He spotted Billy sitting on the couch. Cords and wires lay

scattered on the floor, along with the remains of three laptops that

looked like a baseball bat had hit them multiple times. On the scuffed

coffee table were an assortment of drug paraphernalia, including a

spoon, lighter, and several aluminum foil packets. An open one

contained a powdery substance.

Heroin. Billy’s drug of choice.

Keeping to the shadows, Wick watched as Billy prepared his

dope. Heated the spoon. Picked up the needle. It really was a

disgusting habit, shooting up, especially with track marks up and

down the inside of his arm. How the man had held it together this

long was a surprise. Most addicts spiraled out of control after a while,

beyond the capabilities of stalking someone for eleven years. As the

drug took hold of Billy, he dropped the needle on the sofa cushion

and laid his head back, no doubt flying high in his chemical induced

euphoria.

Wick waited a few more minutes, making sure he didn’t move

before stepping from behind the protective covering. Billy didn’t even

stir as he walked closer to him. Hate welled up inside Wick, powerful

and all consuming. This was the man who had hurt Abbott. Who had

stalked her to the point of madness. Everything Billy Walker touched

was poisoned and it was time to clean up the toxicity that burned liked

acid.

He placed the barrel of his gun against Billy’s forehead and

his finger stiffened on the trigger, but a soft cry from somewhere

upstairs had him pulling the weapon away and turning to where the

staircase resided.

“Abbott,” he whispered.

Ignoring Billy, he ran up the stairs, taking two at a time. Going

door to door, he found her trussed up in the back bedroom, thrashing

around in delirium. Her left arm was swollen, the skin angry with

inflammation. Red streaks were marked over her chest and she was

sweating.

“God damn it,” he muttered. He hurried to the bed and sat

down next to her, reaching for her. “Abbott!”

She was hot to the touch. So hot that panic overtook him for a

moment. Holy shit, the asshole must have injected her with heroin.

She’d told him once she was allergic to it, and by the way she was

reacting, it certainly looked like her body was rejecting the stuff. Now

he was fearful that anaphylaxis would settle in. He dug into her jeans

pocket and found the little compartment that held the antihistamine

slips she always carried. Taking one of the very thin films, he opened

her mouth and placed it on her tongue, hoping to God it worked until

he could get her medical help. Scooping her up, he turned and rushed

back down the stairs. As he came to the bottom, he saw Billy looking

at them, head lolled on the back of the couch and a blank expression

covering his face.

“You fucking asshole!” Wick snarled.

In his euphoric haze, Billy managed to smile at him, an evil

little grin that made Wick realize that if he didn’t kill the bastard now,

Abbott would never be safe. He looked down at her. She seemed to be

breathing a little better, but sweat poured off her. All the words

Darrell had said about drugs rolled through his mind in a second, the

painful addiction so many had, especially their brothers and sisters in

arms. It disgusted him, the fact that maybe he was one of the people

that had hurt Abbott, simply by dealing the drugs and being part of

the problem. It was a bitter lesson to learn. He bent and laid her

carefully on the floor before walking over to Billy.

He stared at the man for a long moment, hate swirling through

him. Justice wouldn’t serve this man, wouldn’t be enough punishment

for the hell he’d put Abbott through. Wick held no qualms about

killing the man, but putting a bullet in Billy’s brain wasn’t good

enough, and Jeff’s warning flashed through his mind. No, he certainly

couldn’t shoot the bastard.

His gaze landed on the tin foil that still had about one tenth of

a gram on it. Next to it were all the other packets, along with some

scattered pills. Wick hadn’t a clue what the pills were, but they

probably weren’t plain old aspirin. Billy clearly had plans on staying

in this house for a while, getting high while Abbott slowly died.

Wick crouched down and opened each packet, revealing the

heroin. Methodically, he prepared all of it for injection. He knew from

general research, back when the Forgotten Rebels had been talking

about getting into the meth business, that overdosing depends on the

person’s tolerance. Billy’s, no doubt, was extremely high. Once it was

in liquid form, he drew it up into the syringe, filling it, and placed it at the vein in Billy’s arm. Without an ounce of remorse, he plunged it in.

Billy opened his bloodshot eyes and their gazes locked. For a

heartbeat, neither moved and then Billy lunged toward him. Wick

stepped back, and Billy simply fell onto his face. It took a moment for

him to push up since he was so fucking doped up, but when he did, he

smiled with evil malice.

“You dead,” he slurred. “I’s fucking gonna kill you.”

“Fuck you, Billy,” Wick said calmly. “You won’t be alive

much longer to kill me, let alone bother Abbott anymore.”

Billy pushed himself back into a sitting position and looked at

the empty aluminum foil packets on the table. Slowly, his head

swiveled to the syringe on the couch cushion. Wick saw

comprehension flitter over the stoned look on his face.

“What did ya do?” he asked in a horrified whisper.

“I killed you,” Wick said in bland tone. “You’re too good for a

bullet and this way you’ll be just one more junkie who overdosed. I’m

betting you chased those pills with heroin so God only knows how

long you have. Do you know that when you go to sleep the body

naturally remembers to breathe, but when you overdose on heroin,

your body forgets? You do deserve a more painful death, Billy, but

this is way more fitting because you’re trapped. You can’t do a damn

thing to stop it. Just like Abbott, for eleven fucking years.”

Billy stared at him for a moment, and then a high pitch whistle

came out of him, that resembled something like a laugh.

“Re’ember this place?” he slurred. “This is where I found her.

My girl.”

The words made Wick want to press his gun to the fucker’s

forehead and blow his brains out, but all he did was lean into Billy’s

face and sneer.

“She was never
your
girl, and when you meet the devil when

you get to hell, tell him I said hello.”

Wick stood over him, watching with wicked glee as Billy’s

breathing became shallower and shallower. He never took his gaze off

him and slowly, Billy’s eyelids drooped. He relaxed so completely, a

urine stain saturated the front of his jeans as he lost control of his

bladder. Little by little, his chest slowed it’s up and down movements,

until Wick couldn’t see it compress at all. Still, he waited, staring at

him and thinking he should be feeling something, like a sense of

vengeance. Instead, he felt absolutely nothing. Not remorse. Not joy.

Not relief. Billy Walker was dying.

Dead.

He could never hurt Abbott again.