Paint It All Red (Mindf*ck #5)(14)

Good luck with that.

The judge backs away, staring at the door in confusion. It seems to take forever for him to realize music is playing, and he whirls around, staring at the record player as I lurk in the shadows.

Murdock screams over the gag, growing loud enough to draw the judge’s attention to him. Judge Thomas almost trips over himself when he spots the restrained deputy.

“Greg!” Judge Thomas gasps as I step out of the shadows.

He struggles to untie the deputy, and Murdock wriggles harder, screaming and trying to get the judge’s attention. Murdock blinks and eyes the judge, then darts panicked glances in my direction, doing all he can with eye communication to warn the fool.

It’s a valiant effort, but pointless. My favorite part in the horror movies is when the idiot won’t turn around while the restrained buddy is doing all they can to alert them of danger.

“Damn it, Greg, hold still. These knots are—”

“Awesome,” I say, finishing that sentence for him.

Henry Thomas trips, falling to the ground on his knees, staring up at me with wide, horrified eyes.

How fitting.

“While you’re down there, you can say your last words,” I tell him, holding up the knife. “And maybe confess your sins while you’re at it.”

He trembles, his lips move, but no words come out. Finally, he gets out three words. “Who are you?”

Pretty sure that’s the least important thing he could have asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I ask as the music plays on and Murdock struggles against his bindings. “I’m the girl whose life you destroyed. I just have a different face, considering the lynch mob you and Sheriff Cannon sent after us crushed the old one.”

He swallows hard, his color paling.

“You even cast away your son for not following through with the barbaric show the others put on. Did you think him less of a man for not being able to rape a sixteen-year-old girl or seventeen-year-old boy?” I ask, sounding amused, when really it’s all I can do not to slit his throat now.

“No,” he says on a rasp whisper. “You’re dead—”

“So I’ve heard. Over and over. Funny thing about death—someone has to do a damn good job at killing a girl like me. So far, everyone has sucked at that task.”

He scrambles up to his feet, backing toward his desk where he thinks he has a gun hidden. I smirk when he jerks open the drawer, slinging shit everywhere as he rifles through it, searching aimlessly for a gun I’ve already taken the liberty of removing.

“You won’t find it,” I tell him as he jerks the drawer completely out, tossing it at me in a desperate attempt to make time for him to dash to the door again.

I dodge the drawer easily enough, and watch with fascination as he jerks on the handle of the door over and over.

Einstein believed that the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. By that definition, the judge is clearly insane for thinking the door is going to magically swing open.

I turn up the music as he starts screaming for help. I know the halls are empty. It’s late, well after hours in our small town courtroom. Only a few people are here, and they’re all on the floor below us.

“Tell me how you suppressed evidence, Judge Thomas. Tell me how you overlooked eye-witness testimonies and ruled them inadmissible.”

He spins, his back to the door, his chest heaving as the music plays on, creating the perfect ambience for a Judge’s murder.

“I had to,” he growls. “I had to, or Sheriff Cannon—”

“Let’s not lay blame,” I drawl. “Tell me your part, Judge. And maybe I won’t leave you hanging from the church tower like I did Kyle.”

Murdock’s fight leaves him as panic freezes him in place. A slow smile curves my lips when the judge staggers forward, his entire body a pasty shade of white now as he gawks at me in disbelief.

They know if I could kill a monster like Kyle so savagely and live to tell about it, then I’m the real thing of nightmares. Love it.

I throw the knife, and he screams, diving to the ground as it sticks into the picture of him on the wall. He’s wearing his robes in that picture, looking prominent and pompous. The real man is sobbing on the ground while trembling in fear.

“Tell me!” I shout, smiling on the inside while playing the out-of-control mad-woman on the outside.

He curls in on himself, sobbing harder. “I did it,” he says, sobbing harder. “I did it. I suppressed all the evidence that cleared Robert Evans. But at the time, I swear I thought it was him. Johnson promised us it was him.”

I crouch, pulling another knife from my boot and toying with the handle for a nice little psychotic show.

“Tell me the rest,” I say quietly. “Tell me how you and the sheriff, along with all his deputies, sent a gang of boys to rape the children of the man you wrongfully imprisoned.”

He chokes on his sobs, hiccupping out the next words. “I never meant for the rape—”

“Bullshit!” I snap, holding the knife in front of me. “The truth, Judge. I already know it. I just want to hear it.”

His breaths grow labored and his cries get harder. It takes effort, but he finally speaks again.

“We just wanted you to feel the same pain as those women because you two wouldn’t stop defending him!”