Speak No Evil_ A Novel - Allison Brennan [21]
Next time he’d fuck her with his hands on her neck. Maybe then it would last longer. He’d already bought the plastic wrap, a thin layer of protection.
He reached over to the computer and started a slide show he’d made with his digital camera and downloaded onto his hard drive. Pictures of Angie on his bed. No sound necessary because her face of fear was all he needed. Her eyes. Her body straining. The vocal cords on her neck stretched taut.
Just like the tape.
But his masterpiece was better, much better, than the cheap, grainy, black-and-white film—everything he wanted to see in vivid color. The fear, the blood, the sweat on her face. Each still shot gave him what he needed. The slide show he’d created went faster and faster until the best part, when his back was in view, and his dick stuck out, and he slid the condom on and fucked her. Just like the movie. At last, he came.
He closed his eyes, panting. His hands reached for the navel ring in his own abdomen. The thrill that he had something of Angie’s in him began to diminish. Tears fell, but he didn’t feel them.
Why didn’t you kill her, Daddy? If you’d killed the bitch, she wouldn’t have called the cops and had you taken away.
Five years had seemed like forever, but it really wasn’t.
Only death was forever.
SEVEN
NICK THOMAS SAT UNCOMFORTABLY in his wooden desk chair, rubbing his sore knee. He slipped on reading glasses and read the reports stacked precariously high on his desk.
He’d never before let the paperwork get this far out of hand. What a difference a year makes.
He watched the deputies outside his office window as shifts changed. The casual glances in his direction. The concerned look on the faces of some; the wariness on the faces of others. He’d been back on the job seven months, but no one had forgotten what had happened last May. Nick found himself glancing at the calendar more often now, as the anniversary of the Butcher’s last hunt approached.
The Butcher wasn’t the only reason he kept looking at the calendar. Three weeks from tomorrow was the deadline to file for reelection, and he still hadn’t made his decision.
Frankly, he had no right to be sheriff. He should have resigned after he screwed up and lived to talk about it.
He didn’t think he could do it. Not again. He’d screwed up, and his error of judgment had not only almost cost him his life, but the lives of citizens he had been sworn to protect.
At the same time, he’d learned about both himself and the nature of violence in a way that could only benefit him as a sworn officer. He was torn. Though none of his relatives had ever been in law enforcement, being a cop seemed to be ingrained in him. He didn’t know how to do anything else.
Pulling his hand from his aching knee, he picked up a pen and signed reports, barely giving them the attention they deserved. Damn knee. He’d tossed out the painkillers as soon as he’d left the hospital last year, hating the ethereal feeling the medication gave him. He dealt with the pain. To remember? As punishment? Whatever, he preferred the pain to the vagueness that came over him when on medication.
One day at a time.
His phone rang, startling him. It was his private line. Few people called on it. Glancing at the clock, he saw that more than an hour had passed since he’d sat down. Had he really been staring at the same piece of paper for an hour? What was wrong with him?
He grabbed the receiver. “Sheriff Thomas.”
“Nicky, it’s Steve.”
His brother. He hadn’t talked to Steve in months. The last time they had had a real conversation had been just after Nick had been released from the hospital last summer. Nick had swallowed his pride and asked Steve if he had a couple weeks to come up and help. Steve had declined. He was taking summer classes at the university. When he offered to come up for a weekend, Nick said no. He hadn’t wanted to entertain his brother, he