Sins of the Father: Chapter 17

Drake didn’t recognize the man who stared back at him from the mirror. His eye was bruised and swollen from the man’s fists, and the back of his head ached. His skin was pale and he felt cold and clammy. He probably had a concussion. Slowly, he worked the soap back and forth over his hands and watched the bloody suds pool at the bottom of the sink. Someone else’s blood. He was washing someone else’s blood off his hands. He’d always thought that when push came to shove, he would be a brave man, that he would be able to sacrifice his life to save someone else, but he had learned that wasn’t the case. When that bastard had pointed his knife in his hand, his insides turned to jelly and he had pissed his pants, and then he had done whatever the man told him to do.

The cabin was out in the woods, far from the highway and from neighbors. No one had heard the old couple scream as they’d been tormented in their last few minutes alive. And they hadn’t been screaming at the monster who held him captive, they had been screaming at him as he drew the sharp hunting knife the monster had given him first across the poor old lady’s neck and then across the screaming old man’s neck. The knife had slid across their skin as if he were cutting silk and, then blood had sprayed across his face. Their screams cut short by his knife, their lives trickled away with the rivers of blood that leaked from the slits in their throats.

Going numb, he had slipped to his knees the knife clutched limply in his right hand. As the monster gently removed the knife from his hand, he realized belatedly that the monster had given him a lethal weapon, and instead of turning it on the monster or, even himself, he had meekly cut the throats of the innocent people before him. Now, he stood in the bathroom preparing to take a shower and wash the incriminating blood away. Using the old couple’s battered old Jeep, the monster had driven further into the wood. They had found this cabin which was deserted. Perhaps, it was someone’s hunting cabin. Drake breathed a sigh of release when the monster forced the door open and they found the cabin empty. Drake couldn’t watch another person die.

Making the water as hot as he could stand, he stepped into the shower and let the hot water stream down his face and body. The heat of the water made the wound on his head sting and revealed scrapes and cuts he didn’t know he had. He grabbed the old piece of soap from the soap dish in the shower and scrubbed his hair and face. He scrubbed until the water ran cold, and then stepped out of the shower. He grabbed an old ratty towel hanging on the towel rack and hastily dried himself off. He hated to put on the clothes the monster had stolen, but he had no choice. The monster had taken his clothes. Sniffling, Drake pulled on the dead old man’s faded blue jeans and fraying sweater.

Even if he managed to get out of this alive, he would have to face the consequences of what he had done. He had made a conscious choice—his life or the old couples. He had chosen his own life. He jumped when the monster pounded on the bathroom door.

“You’ve been in there long enough.”

Quickly, he opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom. Drake was a tall man, but the monster met him eye to eye. He also had a good 50 pounds on Drake, but he wasn’t fat. He was hard with muscle. His pecs stretched out the black t-shirt he wore and Drake had felt the impact of those bulging biceps. His eyes were so dark they were almost black. And they were cold, dead. He’d never seen such old eyes in another human being. He braced himself for another blow, but the monster just motioned towards the kitchen.

“Dinner’s on the table.”

The last thing Drake wanted to was eat, but he made himself go into the small kitchen and sit at the battered wooden kitchen table. The monster had found some canned stew. Drake picked at the gelatinous mass thinking of the homemade stew he liked to make for Madison in the winter. The monster saw him picking at his food.

“You better eat.”

Drake began eating the tasteless stew. He felt like spewing it all over the monster’s face, but he continued to choke it down. Even now, when he’d lost everything, he was afraid to act, afraid of the pain the monster could inflict, both physical and emotional.

He watched Drake carefully. When he’d handed Drake the hunting knife, he’d just wanted to see what kind of man he was dealing with. He was ready for Drake to turn the knife on him. He wasn’t nervous. He knew how to defend himself and how to disarm an assailant. He’d expected Drake to at least bargain with him, but Drake had calmly slit the old couple’s throats. For a moment, he had dropped his guard. If Drake had turned on him then, he would have had the upper hand, but he didn’t turn on him. Drake had dropped to his knees. He had been able to take the knife from Drake. He had placed the bloody knife and Drake’s bloody clothes in a Ziploc bag he had found in the kitchen here. He packaged them up carefully like the police would. His own prints were on the knife as well, but he didn’t worry about that. He never worried about leaving evidence behind, because his evidence couldn’t be tracked. He was a ghost.

When they finished eating, he had Drake wash up the dishes while he went to examine the gun he had lifted from the old guy. As a rule, he didn’t like weapons, but he needed a little more insurance than his own fists could offer. The gun was clean, well cared for, a double action pistol. It wasn’t as good as what the police probably carried, but it would do for his purposes. He needed it to keep Drake in line and to show the Sheriff that he meant business. When he was satisfied that the gun worked well, he slid it into the back of his jeans, and covered it with the tail of his shirt. He picked up the knife and began polishing it with a rag.

When Drake entered the living room, he motioned to him with the knife to sit on the brown plaid couch under the window. He could tell Drake was at the end of his stamina. He needed rest. He didn’t have the stamina or the strength of character to withstand what he had gone through. He knew Drake like men well. Drake was as tall as he was, but not strong. While he looked like he hit the gym every now and then, he wasn’t muscular and he wasn’t strong. He was one of those men who liked the appearance of being strong, but he lacked inner strength.

He watched Drake slowly begin to doze off on the couch. He let him sleep. He would need his energy for what was to come. It wouldn’t be long until the Sheriff followed the signal from Drake’s phone to the other cabin. He had turned the phone back on just before they left. He had left Drake’s car in front of the cabin and they had taken the couple’s old Jeep. His burner phone was charging. As soon as it was finished, he would call the Sheriff and set the last part of his plan in motion.

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