Page 32 of Night Blind

“My Queen,” he repeated, pushing the door wide. His arms splayed open for her to come to him, his hand moving low to rub the eagerness throbbing in his pants. “I want you to start with this. Get in here. Get in here now!”

Helen stepped inside the door, walking into his embrace with her left hand kept low, hidden in the folds of the dress. From the pocket, she slipped her hand inside, her finger on the trigger. He barely had time to react as she pulled the trigger, placing a bullet in his leg. Shocked, he reached for his leg with one hand while the other grappled for her, only to receive a bullet in the opposite leg. He went down on the floor, writhing in pain.

Quick hands locked the front screen door, knowing Mustang had placed the order for backup. She didn’t have much time. The butt of the weapon came down hard on his temple, knocking The Collector unconscious. Her hand slid down his shirt, freeing the keys he kept around his neck. She wouldn’t take any chances with the slippery bastard, dragging him across the floor to the dining room where she knew from being his captive that creeps were creatures of habit. A trail of crimson left a blood-soaked path to the dining room where the table had been set for dinner for six. Her eyebrows arched at the number of place settings. Yetthe rest was the same as the other location near the lake where he’d held her captive.

The dining room table had chains bolted to the floor with open shackles to hold his victims in place. The open cuff went around his ankle, and she secured the lock. A dog collar went around his neck, which she also locked into place. Now, to free the women. The table was set for six, which meant he’d added another doll to his collection to match the other four. Well, today was her lucky day.

This house had a similar layout to one near the lake where he’d held her and the other women. She prayed silently as she walked down the hall, flipping on lights and heard the sounds of chains moving as voices called out, “Hello? Hello? Who’s out there?”

A door on the left, reinforced with metal plating, had a deadbolt lock on the outside. The key on the ring opened it, and she cracked the door, praying to find one of the women who had helped her escape. She opened the door to find China, who gasped at seeing Helen standing in the doorway.

“Hey Girl,” she told China, “Are you ready to get the fuck out of here?”

China wept with joy as Helen went to the next room, freeing Irish, then Mexicali, and finally Italy, who screamed when she saw her. “You came back! You came back for us! Where is he? Where is that bastard?”

Helen placed her hand over her mouth, miming for Italy to be quiet, but she wouldn’t be as if she were letting The Collector know they were being freed.

“Bitch, are you trying to get everyone caught?” Helen asked, looking at her.

“No, I’m not,” Italy said, staring at her with a bit of anger in her eyes.

“Listen, if you want to stay here, you can, and we all will leave,” she told her as Mexicali pulled on her arm, gaining her attention while pointing at another door. Mexicali could not speak. The Collector had cut out her tongue, cauterizing the edges to prevent massive bleeding. She made noises that sounded like a seal when she tried to speak, and Helen held up her hand to stop Mexicali from trying.

“He found a replacement for me?”

China said softly, “No, he found a trainee or a helper. However, the helper doesn’t want to be here either.”

Hesitantly, Helen went to the door. She glanced at her watch, still holding the Smith and Wesson low, and tapped on the door. “Hey, I’m going to free you, but don’t come charging at me. I have a gun.”

The hinges creaked, and the room was dark, devoid of light as if the room was once a closet. Behind the door was a boy no more than ten. Thin arms and legs, sunken eyes, and a sheer will to fight off any demon that would come his way covered him as he stood at the door, ready to swing. Helen held up her hands and the weapon. She tossed him the key to free himself from the chains, which more than likely weighed more than he did.

“Let’s move,” she told them, coming down the hall. Stanton Rogers had come around, his eyes were open, and he sat chained, bleeding on the floor. Italy ran to him, trying to stop the blood. In the distance, sirens could be heard rapidly approaching the home. China and Irish were disgusted by Italy’s response to seeing their captor bleeding. Italy ripped off portions of her shirt to apply pressure to the wounds to slow down the steady trickle of life juices eking from his disgusting body.

Mexicali went for Italy, yanking at her hair and causing a tussle between the women. The real surprise came from the boywho walked over to Stanton, socking him in the face with a tiny fist. Helen didn’t have time for any of it.

“China, Irish, out the door,” she commanded. “Mexicali, take the boy. Italy, if you don’t want this bullet, you need to move out of the way.”

“No,” Italy wailed, “he’s, my husband.”

“And I’m Pope Benedict; now get the hell out of the way!”

“He’s my legal husband,” she cried, leaning over him, “I’m Marjorie Rogers, his wife.”

Helen stood for a second looking at the woman who had taken part in her husband’s sick sexual fantasy gone awry. The women, now free, opened the front glass door Helen had previously locked, exiting the home and running towards the approaching sirens. The disgust she felt grew seeing Italy leaning over the man, frantically trying to save his miserable life.

She raised her weapon to end them both only to hear a voice call to her, “No, don’t do it. If you do, it changes everything and it will change you.”

The words came from Mustang. He stood in the doorway waiting for her to come to him. He held out his hand, beckoning her forward, but pain kept her rooted to this spot. Hatred for the man named Stanton Rogers who fancied himself a collector of human dolls to live in his house of horrors, outweighed any rational thought. God only knew what his plans were for the boy, or what he’d already done to the child, and for that, he needed the bullet in the weapon she’d kissed with the hot red lipstick she wore on her mouth. That bullet was meant to be his kiss of death.

“He deserves this bullet,” she told Mustang.

“He deserves to spend the rest of his life in a cell,” Mustang said.

“And when they take him to the hospital, and he manages to escape to get free and torture other people, whose consciencewill that be on? Not mine. He dies now,” she said, pointing the weapon.

“If he dies, so will the humanity inside of you,” he told her, “Your call. I’ll be in the truck.”

He walked away, leaving the weight of a decision she’d been waiting to execute for five long months. Each time she closed her eyes at night, the torture and pain he had inflicted on her life resurfaced. Mustang wanted to take this moment away from her. He wanted her to be the better person and not kill for the pleasure of watching the light leave Stanton Roger’s eyes. As far as she was concerned, Italy needed a bullet as well.

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