Page 45 of Cole: Bloodlines
Daniel Pruett shrugged and slid a tumbler across the desk to Cole. “Drink up.” His smile was anything but cheerful. “You’re going to need it.”
Cole ignored the glass. “Whatever you want from me,” he said quietly, trying to steady the tremor in his voice. “I’ll give it to you… if you let Gabe and the kids go.”
“Who says they’re still alive?” he murmured, sipping his drink. “Any of them?”
“Because as long as they’re alive, you can control me.” Cole sniffed. “Because you know I’ll do anything to keep them alive.”
Daniel nodded. “True.” He licked scotch off his lips. “How did your friends enjoy the gift I left them at the park?” He seemed eager to hear the answer.
The memory of that horror scene haunted Cole. “I think you know.”
“Tell me.” Daniel moved around the desk and leaned against the front, sipping his drink. “Tell it to me like a scary story, with all the grisly details.” He grinned as he raised the glass to his lips again.
Cole looked at him, hating him more than he ever thought he could hate another human being. Then again, this was no human being. “No,” he whispered. “I’m not going to tell you. What you did to them was beyond evil. I won’t pick apart their pain and suffering for you to gloat over.”
The man shrugged and set his glass down on the desk. “Fair enough.” He passed the third glass to Byrne and again offered the other tumbler to Cole. “I really think you’re going to need this.”
A stiff drink wouldn't do much good at this point. “No thanks,” he mumbled.
“Suit yourself.” Daniel picked up the glass and drained it in one swallow. He wiped his mouth and smiled. “No point delaying the inevitable, hm?” He nodded toward the door. “Shall we?”
Byrne grabbed Cole’s arm and turned him toward the door, pushing him ahead. The man hadn’t spoken a word to Daniel since they entered the office. Based on their conversation in the car, Cole sensed deep bitterness and resentment in the deputy toward his dad.
Because of me.
Cole didn’t give two shits about his “brother’s” petty sibling rivalry. The man blamed Cole for things that were beyond his control. He hadn’t asked to be born as the son of a serial killer. It wasn’thisfault that their psychopathic father favored him over his brother. He hadn’t asked for thatfavor, and he sure as fuck didn’twantit. It shocked him to discover that he was his dad’s favorite. As a kid, he wondered if his dad hated him. The man certainly hadn’tshownhim any favor—even whiletraininghim.
•••
The day after his dad fed the woman’s body to the pigs, he came home with the “treat” he’d mentioned during breakfast. With the Bronco backed into the rear entrance of the barn, he opened the back of the vehicle, revealing a black body bag with a squirming “guest” inside. Muffled cries pressed through the thick bag; shrill, panicked whimpers.
Henry shook his head, taking a few steps back. The person inside didn’t seem as big as the woman from before, and the muffled cries sounded… male. Not adult male, but young… like Henry.
His dad heaved the bag over his shoulder while the captive wriggled and jerked, trying to scream through their gag. Henry stood by the truck, tears running down his face, as his dad walked over to the cellar door, dumped the body on the barn floor with a heavy thud, and removed the padlock. Down on one knee, he looked at Henry. “What’re you waiting for, boy? Get over here.”
Too scared to defy his dad, Henry walked forward, his legs shaking badly and stomach twisting into knots, making him sick. His dad opened the cellar door, picked up the squirming bag, and carried his victim down into the cellar. Henry hesitated at the top of the stairs, then followed his dad, pulling the door closed after him.
At the bottom of the steps, Henry froze in place, his hands clenched so tight his arms ached. A painful numbness spread through his head as his dad dumped his cargo on the floor and unzipped the bag. Henry gasped, his fists cramming against his mouth. The boy inside the bag was only thirteen or fourteen—and looked like Ezra. Too much so that his dad surely saw it, too. Is that why he grabbed this boy? Because he looked like Ezra?
Henry’s chin trembled as he shoved his fists harder against his mouth, trying to choke back his sobs. His dad dragged the boy out of the bag and laid him on the table, which was still tacky with the woman’s blood. His hands were bound in rope, and thick tape covered his mouth. The boy’s eyes bulged in his head, darting frantically around the cellar until he locked on Henry. He screamed at Henry for help, his words muffled behind the tape. Tears and snot smeared his face, his throat straining with his silenced screams.
“Calm down, now,” his dad murmured while he casually caught the boy’s flailing feet and tied them to the corners of the table. The kid twisted and thrashed, trying to fight hiskidnapper with his tied hands. When he managed to scratch Daniel’s face, the man grabbed the boy’s throat and slammed him down on his back, squeezing until the kid’s face and neck turned red. “I said, calm down.”
The boy stopped resisting and lay in a paralyzed panic, his chest heaving and nostrils flaring as tears streamed down into his ears. Sobs rattled his throat, his terrified eyes turning to Henry again. Henry stared back, as frightened as the kid. His breath stuttered against his fists—tears, snot, and saliva wetting his knuckles.
When his dad had the kid fully restrained, his hands tied above his head, he removed the tape. The boy immediately cried out, “Please let me go! Please! Please! I wanna go home! Please let me go home! Please!” He dissolved into a fit of broken, uncontrollable sobs.
Henry was shaking and crying, seeing Ezra on that table—wondering if he had been on that table. When his dad motioned to him, Henry backed up against the partition between the cellar and the stairs, shaking his head, sobs gagging him.
“Boy.” His dad cocked his head, his face stern. He snapped his fingers.
Henry choked on his cries as he walked forward, his steps small and unsteady. He glanced at the boy who was openly crying and watching Henry.
“Please help me,” he sobbed. “Please. I wanna go home… I want my mom and dad… please let me go home… please… please…”
Henry didn’t realize he’d stopped moving—standing in place, crying—until his dad grabbed his arm and yanked him closer. “No…” Henry whimpered. “Please, Dad… don’t…”
His dad backhanded him, knocking him off balance. Henry would have dropped to the floor if his dad hadn’t still been holding his arm. “Stop your fucking whining. I got himspecially for you, be grateful. He even kind of looks like Ezra. That should make it easier.”
