Her Last Day (Jessie Cole #1)(82)
What was he up to?
“I usually interview the people I bring down here to my private study,” he told Jessie, speaking loudly enough to be heard over Zee’s anguished cries.
Jessie crawled toward the chair, hoping to use it as a weapon.
“But I learned enough about you when I sliced open your pretty face,” he said as he headed her way.
The dizzying pain in Jessie’s head slowed her.
“Leave us alone!” Zee cried.
Taking slow, casual steps toward Jessie, Forrest said, “I wish I could replay the look on your face when you saw the blood on your hands. A private eye who’s afraid of blood. Who would have guessed?”
“I hate you! I hate you!” Zee chanted.
Jessie reached the chair just as he caught up to her. She grabbed the wooden leg and pulled, but it was too late. He stood over her, a sickening smile on his face as he poured the contents of the bucket over her head.
Blood, thick and dark red, oozed its way through her hair and down both sides of her face. She squeezed her eyes shut as rivers of the stuff coated her nose and mouth, making it difficult to breathe.
He took his time, making sure to drench every part of her, including her clothes.
Unable to hold her breath, she coughed, her hands shaking as she swept a thick coat of blood from her eyelids. This was not the stuff made for movies. No ketchup or corn syrup and red dye, but instead metallic and coppery in scent.
Every muscle stiffened.
She tried to move, willed herself to do so, but her body failed her. Finally her eyes snapped open. Through the blood dripping down her face, she stared at Forrest Bloom as an eerie howling erupted in the enclosed cell behind him, dampening his glee.
Beneath her blood-soaked body, her pulse raced.
The eerie sounds of a dying animal caused more confusion.
What was going on? It was as if the devil himself had come to life.
Again she concentrated on moving, cursing herself for being so fucking weak. The notion that the mere sight of blood, whether it was a small drop or an entire bucket, could shut her down was illogical. She needed to get out of there.
As the howling increased in volume, the rattling of the metal bars ceased. Calmly, barely loud enough to be heard over the howling, Zee said, “It’s pig’s blood, not human blood. You can do this.”
Forrest pounded on the wall of the enclosed cell, trying to quiet whoever was making all the noise. He pulled a metal loop of keys from his pocket and slipped a large key into the slot in the padlock. Chains rattled. At the very moment the cell door came open, Jessie saw a man appear on the stairway above.
Ben couldn’t make any sense out of what he was seeing or hearing as he came forward, taking slow, careful steps down the stairs and into a dark underground room lit only by kerosene lamps. A long mournful cry of a dying wolf was followed by laughter. A woman sat motionless in the middle of the room, drenched in blood. Another woman lay faceup in a cage, her eyes wide, her hands clasped around the knife in her chest. The other cage was also occupied. But the young woman inside that one was alive and well, talking to the one covered in blood, trying desperately to get her moving.
And within a room he couldn’t yet see inside of came another eerie howl, like nothing he’d ever heard in his life. It wasn’t until he got closer that he recognized Jessie as the person covered in blood.
Continuing on at a slow pace, he heard a voice.
“I’m tired of your filth and your constant racket, Dog. Today is a fine day to die.”
Ben stopped at the entrance of the enclosed cell and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. A tall, lanky boy he assumed to be Forrest Bloom was tossing darts at an old bearded man confined in chains. Every time a dart struck, the man he called Dog would howl. And the boy would laugh.
Ben inhaled as familiar images of broken bodies and bloodied corpses flashed in rapid succession through his mind. He squeezed his eyes closed, and when he opened them again, he saw a dart strike the old man’s forehead, right between the eyes. The howl that erupted from the man’s gaping mouth was a bloodcurdling cry filled with pain and sorrow.
The scene before him was madness, and he could feel the tingling of rage flushing him with heat as he drew in slow, steady breaths. Images continued to flash through his mind: the woman who’d been stabbed, Jessie covered in blood, and the girl in the box. It all needed to stop. It needed to stop right now.
The howling continued as he stepped inside the tiny room.
When the man’s captor realized he wasn’t alone, he turned around and merely smirked at Ben as he raised his hand to throw another dart.
Ben swung the tire iron, catching him on the shoulder.
The young man stumbled backward, his back against the wall as Ben tossed the tire iron to the side, stepped forward and wrapped all ten fingers around Forrest Bloom’s neck.
“You can’t stop me, old man,” Forrest cried out in a raspy voice. “Nobody can stop me. Dog! Take care of him, or I’ll put you in the snake pit.”
The old man didn’t move. He simply shook his head as he leaned tiredly against the wall, one eye still open, watching, perhaps waiting for his captor to take his last breath.
Ben felt a tightening in his chest as he continued to squeeze. The bloody images wouldn’t stop, flickering like a filmstrip in his mind’s eye, again ending with the sickly pale girl he’d found in the box. His muscles quivered as the beat of his heart thundered within his ears.