“We have probable cause to believe someone is in distress in here,” Titus said, hating the taste of the lie on his tongue. If Royce wasn’t here, if Lavon wasn’t here, anything they found would be inadmissible in court. A first-year law student would see right through his story.
But his gut told him that this was the place. This was the abattoir. And Royce was the butcher.
Titus grabbed the doorknob.
The door was unlocked.
“All right. Come on,” Titus said.
The house had a cloyingly sweet aroma. It was as if someone had lit too many fragrant candles. They moved through a sparse living room. There was a sofa, a love seat, and a small flat-screen TV hung on the wall over what appeared to be an unused fireplace. Titus noted there were no pictures on the walls. No family or friends, no moments in time captured for posterity’s sake. They worked their way through a small parlor. Straight ahead was the huge kitchen. To the left was a closed door.
Titus pointed to the door with two fingers, but he didn’t speak. Tom nodded. Titus approached the door. He flattened himself against the wall and reached out with his left hand and grasped the doorknob. Tom moved to the right of the door and copied Titus’s stance. Titus counted to three with his fingers, then turned the knob and pushed the door open.
He went in, crouching low while sweeping his gun from side to side. It was a small bedroom, a single bed in the center. It was just as spartan as the living room.
Tied to the bed by her hands and her feet was Dayane Carter. She was naked and not moving. Titus went to her and put his fingers to her neck. She had a pulse, albeit a weak one.
“Jesus Lord,” Tom whispered.
Most of Dayane’s naked body was covered with cuts and slashes. These cuts and slashes formed words and phrases that had the tone of biblical scripture but weren’t in any Bible he’d ever read. Royce had cut her and then apparently cauterized her wounds.
“He wanted to keep her alive for as long as possible,” Titus mumbled. If that had been Royce’s plan, it was only half working. Many of her wounds were infected. Titus realized now why Royce was using so much air freshener.
“Should we split up? I go upstairs, you check down here?” Tom whispered.
“No, you see those double doors in the kitchen? They probably lead to a root cellar. Call 911 for her. I’m gonna go check it out,” Titus said.
“I can call and follow you at the same time,” Tom said.
“Okay, fine. Let’s move,” Titus said.
Titus headed for the kitchen. He heard Tom on the phone giving the address and requesting an ambulance and telling Cam to send the whole crew. The kitchen was twice the size of the one at his father’s house. Where the rest of the house was a study in austerity, the kitchen was laid out with lavish equipment. There was an espresso machine and a retro stainless-steel refrigerator, a huge stainless-steel blender, and a fire-engine-red mixer. There was also a large six-slice toaster and a garish ceramic cookie jar in the shape of a teddy bear. The floor of the kitchen was set in a black-and-white-checkered pattern made with marble tile. A large, somewhat oval-shaped candy-apple-red steel table sat in the middle of the kitchen. The double door was at the far end of the oval. To the left there was a screen door that led to the backyard. To the right was a tall pantry with a cloth curtain next to a large gas oven.
Titus paused.
“Let’s check that pantry first,” Titus said, keeping his voice low.
“It don’t look deep enough for nobody to hide in,” Tom said in a whisper.
“Let’s check it anyway,” Titus said.
Tom turned his head to say something to Titus.
The next thing Titus knew, Tom was shoving him to the right, hard.
An explosion thundered through the kitchen and Titus saw most of Tom Sadler’s head disintegrate. Titus fell against the table chest-first. The table skittered across the floor, throwing him off-balance. Instinctively he held out both his hands to break his fall.
Royce Lazare came bounding through the ruined screen door, shirtless and without his usual baseball cap or his thick brown hair. He was holding a double-barreled shotgun. Titus spun around and ended up on his backside. As he began to raise his gun, Royce swung the shotgun like a croquet mallet and cracked the stock against the knuckles of his left hand, knocking the gun free.
Titus’s ears were ringing so loud he didn’t hear the gun clatter across the floor. He hopped up and launched himself at Royce, tackling him around the midsection and driving him back against his counter. Royce dropped the shotgun and started raining down blows on Titus’s back. Each one felt like a cinder block slamming into his spine. Titus locked his hands around the man’s waist and hoisted him off his feet.
He was about to twist his body and slam Royce to the floor when he felt a punch to his right side that hurt more than any punch he’d ever received. Suddenly he couldn’t catch his breath. Titus dropped Royce and used both hands to push off Royce’s chest to create space between them. He tumbled backward, slipping on Tom’s blood and falling to his backside again. His right side felt warm and wet.
Royce came at him holding a bowie knife.
He must have a collection, Titus thought randomly as he felt something hard and unyielding under his ass.
Royce was almost on top of him when Titus pulled his gun from under his right thigh. Royce reflexively put his hand out as Titus fired.
The bullet went right through Royce’s hand and grazed his cheek, tearing off a chunk of his left ear. Royce howled and dove for the back door. Titus rolled over on his side and tried to fire again, but that shot went wide and hit the espresso machine on the counter.
Royce scrambled out the door.
* * *
* * *
Titus lay on his left side trying to hold on to his gun, but it was so heavy. His shirt was soaked in a mixture of his and Tom’s blood. A ray of sunlight came through what was left of the screen door and caressed his face. The sunlight was warm. It was a contrast to the marble tile floor, which felt so cold.
The floor isn’t cold. You’re going into shock, he thought. The idea frightened him, but he tried his best to fight the feeling. If he could just close his eyes for a moment, just one minute, he’d regroup, get himself together, and put a bullet in Royce Lazare’s head.
But what about the shock? The blood loss?
“It’s okay. It’s okay. I just gotta rest for a second,” Titus mumbled.
He closed his eyes.
The darkness wasn’t that bad. In a way it was comforting. It was a place he’d run from for so long, a thing inside him that he wanted so badly to excise that he’d never considered the possibility that this was where he was supposed to be, what he was destined to become. One with the shadows, part of an endless night.
“You better shut up with that noise.”
Titus heard the voice, but he refused to believe it was real. Better to keep his eyes shut and drift off than open them and have his heart broken again when he realized she wasn’t there and it was all in his head.
“Boy, you hear me talking to you. You gotta get up, Titus. You gotta get up. He’s got Lavon and he’s gonna do terrible things to him. You gotta get up, son. He’s not gone far. They’re close by, but you gotta get up.”
“I’m so tired, Mama,” Titus said.
“I know, baby, but you gotta get up. GET UP!”
Titus’s eyelids shot open.
The ray of sunlight was still lovingly touching his face. There was no one in the kitchen except him and Tom. Titus rolled over onto his stomach. He reached out and grabbed the handle of the refrigerator. Grunting, he pulled himself up from the floor and leaned against the fridge. He touched his side. He was losing a lot of blood. He took off his shirt. Moving slowly, he tied it as tight as he could around his own midsection. He tried to take a deep breath, but it hurt so much he stopped halfway.
He looked down and saw his gun on the floor. He was afraid if he leaned over he’d pass out again, so he gingerly went down as far as he could on his haunches and snatched it off the floor. He stepped away from the fridge. He had painted the stainless-steel surface in his own bloody palm prints.
He stumbled toward the back door. He forced himself to take a deep breath, cried out, and kept going.
There was blood on the grass, and it wasn’t his. He followed the blood trail like he had that long-ago day when he’d bagged his twelve-pointer. The trail stopped in front of a row of six azalea bushes. Titus looked to his left and then to his right.
To the left was a brown field, recently bush hogged. To the right was a lush meadow, thick with honeysuckle. He looked down at his feet. The blood trail stopped here. The grass where the blood trail stopped was not as vibrant as the rest of the lawn. For that matter, neither was the azalea bush where he was standing.
I did some work for a boy. Helped him put in this building.
Titus reached out and touched the bush in front of him. Ran his fingers on the leaves. Touched the branches.
It was plastic.