Page 56 of Requiem & Reverie

Sickness twists inside my stomach, as I listen to my phone navigate the directions to Oliver. The mind is a fucked-up place, the way it entices us to see things we can’t bear to face. Horrible things, like me arriving at this place, only to find my son screaming for me, as he lays cut open and bleeding out, just like one of my nightmares.

All because of Dale? It still doesn’t make sense to me, but when I get my hands on that slimy bastard, he’s going to wish he’d never messed with my kid.

Knuckles white, gripping tight to the wheel, I grind my teeth, willing those thoughts away, and try to stay focused on the directions. It’s a wonder I’ve managed to keep within my own damn lane as much as my hands are shaking.

The city morphs into open fields as I head toward Will County, which is about an hour from my house.

“Please be alive,” I whisper, my voice shaky and brimming with the terror I’m desperately trying to hold back.

Thirty minutes later, I’m driving through an old town that looks like something straight out of the fifties. Businesses line the main street, which stretches ahead of me for about a mile into the darkness beyond. Only one traffic light, smack in the center of town. My father brought us to this place when we were kids, to pick blueberries at one of the local farms, and I remember we had lunch at the small diner that passes me on the right. All lights are off, except for the streetlamps.

Place is a ghost town.

The directions end at the last business, before the road opens up to a highway that’s flanked by open darkness at either side. Fields, I guess, though it’s hard to see much. I turn the car into the parking lot for what looks like an old automotive garage. The only other cars in the lot are beaten up, with smashed in front ends.

Taking a moment to settle my nerves, I kill the engine and lights and breathe deeply through my nose. I like to think that I’m a fairly strong woman, but knowing what he does to his victims leaves a cold stab of fear in my chest—one that doesn’t diminish knowing it’s Dale.

Once, when Oliver was little, and Denny hadn’t yet come home from work, I heard a crashing sound in the lower part of the house. Every bone in my body shook as I imagined someone breaking into our home while we slept. The noise turned out to be Denny, arriving home earlier than usual, having been laid off from his first job. However, in those split seconds, I contemplated all the ways I would protect my baby, and came to the conclusion that there was no pain I wouldn’t endure just to make sure he was safe.

No pain I wouldn’t endure. No hell I wouldn’t walk through for him.

Flipping open the glove box reveals the knife I grabbed from under my pillow, and I stuff it into my pocket alongside my pepper spray.

A pathetic arsenal of weapons, but it’s better than nothing.

I climb from the Jeep, and on wobbly legs, I make my way toward the building, which stands quiet and dark, set off from the long strip of businesses, as if it doesn’t belong with the others. My blood is cold. My hands are ice and sweat. Breaths arrive so fast, I feel like I could pass out any minute. Scanning the lot shows no sign of Dale’s car anywhere. As I reach the entrance, I glance around at the dark emptiness. With every step, a voice inside my head tells me to go back, but then I remember my son didn’t have that choice. Whatever fear this place stirs, it’s nothing compared to what Oliver has undoubtedly suffered for days.

Still, I know this is a bad idea. I know it was foolish of me to come here alone. In spite of my head telling me otherwise, I’m not a total idiot, because I did leave the address out intentionally, in hopes that once Voss returned, he might stumble upon it.

Because I don’t actually have a death wish. I just want my son, and I don’t trust anyone else to retrieve him.

Not even Voss.

The front door is open, and a bell signals my entry into what looks like a waiting room, with a front desk and chairs lining the wall, and magazines scattered across a table.

Pausing, I tip my head, peering into a dark corridor beyond the desk, which I assume leads out into the main part of the garage. I want to call out for Oliver, but not until I’ve swept the place first. As a comfort, I brush my hand over the bulge in my pocket, where the pocketknife still sits. It’s always taken a slight bit of effort to flip open the blade, but its small enough to stay concealed.

With the flashlight on my phone, I slice through darkness, muscles poised for anything that might jump out at me, then pad toward the back of the building, past the front desk, swallowing the lump in my throat. This feels too familiar. Walking down a dark corridor with doors at either side—one of which always leads to my son’s brutalized body in my nightmares. Fear settles in my chest with an ice-cold knot that branches beneath my ribs, turning my body numb.

Coming to a stop in front of a door, I grip the knob and hold my breath, before opening it into a dark office. I angle the light from my phone and see outdated furniture and a messy desk, with papers scattered across it.

Keeping on, I arrive at a second door, opening it into what looks like a break room, or something, with a single round table surrounded by chairs, and a coffee pot set out on a card table.

A second glass door ahead leads to three car bays. One vehicle sits atop a hoist. Another, without wheels, on a jack.

“Oliver?” I call out into the darkness, sweeping the light over the space.

“Well, hello.” The gravelly voice, like that of a smoker, comes from behind, and a hand smelling of smoke, metal and grease slaps over my mouth.

My scream beats against the stranger’s hand, and I wriggle in his grasp. Another man comes into view, wearing a mechanic’s suit with a name patch that says Duane, and a cigarette hanging from his lips. With dark and gray peppered hair, gray stubble and harsh lines in his face, I’m guessing he’s pushing sixty. Not at all the way Voss described his uncle.

His eyes lower from mine, dipping toward my breasts, and he tips his head. Reaching out a grease-stained hand, he draws a line down my chest and stuffs his hand down the front of my shirt.

Disgusted, I turn my eyes away from him, while he takes a minute to cup my breast.

“What have we here? Looks like a little mouse searching for a piece of cheese.”

The man behind me chuckles and rubs his palm over my belly, before tightening his grip across my midsection. “Prettiest damn mouse I ever seen.”