His voice trembled and tears ran down his cheeks. “Why did you do this? You called us here just so you could kill us? Why?”
“Why?” Ackerman said. “That is the eternal question, isn’t it? From the beginning of human existence, we have sought frantically for the answer to one question: Why? Well, I’m afraid that I don’t really have an answer for you, other than to say that it is simply who I am. Some people paint beautiful works of art. Some people are doctors, lawyers, butchers and bakers and candlestick makers. I am a predator, a killer. Life’s a game, and I like to play. But I’m not quite through playing with you yet. Give me your wallet.”
“My wallet?”
A kick to the back of the head answered his question. “Your wallet, now. Please.”
He complied, and Ackerman took the proffered item. The killer sifted through the wallet’s contents, pausing to study the driver’s license and a tattered family photo. “You’ve got a beautiful family here, Jim Morgan. I’d love to meet them.”
“Don’t even look at them!” he said as he charged at his best friend’s murderer.
Ackerman used the shotgun as a club to knock him to the floor. Then, the killer pummeled him until blood flowed from several large gashes on his face. He could feel his flesh tearing with every blow, but he could do nothing to stop the barrage.
After a moment, the blows ceased. Ackerman stood over him, aiming the shotgun. “I was just going to toy with you a bit before ending your life, but now . . . I think I’ve got a better idea.”
Ackerman walked behind the counter and retrieved a bottle and a cloth, his eyes never leaving Jim.
He writhed in agony on the floor as he watched Ackerman dump some of the contents of the bottle onto the piece of torn cloth. His vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears. He could taste his own blood in his mouth and still smell the acrid smoke from Tom’s charred remains. His brain couldn’t process the onslaught of information transmitted by his senses, and his mind threatened to shut down.
Ackerman knelt and placed the cloth over his mouth. He tried to fight back, but his efforts were futile. Within a moment, he succumbed to the chemicals and darkness overtook him.
*
Jim awoke and scanned his surroundings. He noticed that he was home. His first thought was that the entire ordeal at the gas station had been nothing more than a nightmare.
When he saw his wife and daughter, his relief dissipated like a warm breath on a winter’s day.
His wife, Emily, and their young daughter, Ashley, sat across from him in their living room. The chairs from the dining room had been arranged, as if for an intervention, with Emily and Ashley facing him. They were bound, and duct tape covered their mouths. Their disheveled hair matted together and clung to their foreheads, sticking in a mixture of sweat and tears.
“Ashley!” He tried to run to her, but his own restraints held him at bay. He fought with the ropes, and the fibers dug into his skin.
He turned to his wife. Her raven-black hair hung in her face, and fear contorted her features. Her light complexion, one of the traits she had inherited from an odd pairing of an Irish-American grandmother and a Japanese grandfather, had flushed with red. He thought of the countless moments in which he had run his fingers over her smooth, delicate skin. She had always hated her pale pigmentation and complained of how easily she burned in the sun, but he adored her milky complexion. It reminded him of fine porcelain. He had always felt undeserving of her. Although he had never seemed to find the words to tell her, he felt like the luckiest man in the world to have her as his wife.
Tears cascaded down his cheeks, and his heart broke. He wanted to tear the heart from the monster who had done this to his family. He wanted to light the monster on fire, like the killer had done to Tom, and give the psychopath a glimpse of the hell that clearly awaited him.
As he fumed with impotent rage, Emily caught his attention, and with her eyes, she indicated for him to look to his right.
He followed her gaze, and the cold gray eyes of a madman greeted him.
The sawed-off shotgun in one hand, Ackerman stood and walked to Jim’s side. “It’s about time you woke up,” Ackerman said, patting him on the shoulder. “We’ve been having a great sleepover so far, Dad, but we’re ready to start the night’s entertainment.”