Page 67 of Requiem & Reverie

Blowing out a shaky breath, I can just barely make out a smaller form, like a kid’s, standing beside the crumpled, black mass on the floor. “Oliver?”

“I m-m-made him pass out with that trick? The one y-y-y-you taught me.” A cough and wheezing follows.

Nola gasps again.

“Cover … your mouth with something.” I pull my jacket over my face to block out the odor.

Half blind, I pat around the edge of the frame on which Nola remains bound, and direct Oliver to disconnect the clips from the head of the vacuum bed, while I unroll the aluminum rod, letting the air back in. Nola scrambles out from inside the bed as soon as she’s able, in a bra and underwear, still gasping for breath. I tear a small bit of my shirt to cover her face. Not a second later, she darts forward, straight for Oliver.

Crashing into her son, she peppers him with kisses in between performing a quick check over him. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt?” A barky cough follows, and she lifts the back of her arm to shield her nose.

I take a moment to rinse the residual formaldehyde from my skin in the utility sink next to the broken shelves, then limp toward them. The hot flare of my leg’s bullet wound settles into an intense ache, like it was whacked with a baseball bat. “Move toward the door,” I say, herding the duo with a wave of my hand, while still covering my face.

When we reach the door at the opposite side of the pole barn, I nudge it open a bit. The fresh air soothes the burning, and I stand in the doorway, breathing it in to cool my scorched lungs.

“Did he hurt you?” Nola asks again.

Shaking his head, Oliver offers a slight smile, while she holds out his arms, examining every inch of them. “Oli? He didn’t …. He didn’t touch you, did he?”

He frowns and shakes his head. “I’m okay, M-M-M-Mom.”

She lifts two trembling hands to his face on the short staccato breaths of a sob, and rests her forehead against his. “I never thought … I’d hear that voice again.”

I remove my coat and wrap it around her. Black leather swallowing her, she spins around and snakes her arms around my neck, her whole body quaking against me. Short pants of breath are the beginnings of a sob that she cuts short when she squeezes me tighter, burying her face in my neck.

Damn the relief pounding through my muscles as I crush her against me, the intense pain in my arm and leg, somehow forgotten. Seventeen years, I’ve paid to keep women at a distance, and this one, I can’t keep close enough.

“I knew you’d come after me. I knew you’d find me,” she whispers in a shaky voice. “Thank you.”

I want to kiss the shit out of her, but not with the kid watching. Instead, I grip her shoulders, breaking the embrace, and plant a kiss to her forehead. “Stay with Oliver for a minute. That formaldehyde will act like smelling salts.”

As the two of them reunite, I drag Simon awkwardly on my gimp leg, onto the bed, roll the aluminum rod back into place and reconnect the vacuum. He wakes just as the latex is sealing his arms tight at his side, and he’s immobile before he can reach up to turn it off. Holding his face, I reattach the tubing and stare down at him.

The sounds of his groans through the breathing tube bring a smile to my face.

As I push to a stand and disconnect the vacuum, Nola comes up from behind, her face buried in my coat, and hammers her foot in what I imagine would be his ribcage if I could see clearer. Over the last few minutes, though, my sight has slowly begun to sharpen more and more, as the effects of the pepper spray and formaldehyde fumes begin to dissipate.

“Sick bastard! You rotten piece of shit!” Over and over, she kicks him, as he remains locked inside the latex, until one last slam of her foot into his face knocks the breathing tube right out of his mouth. He shakes his head in what little movement he can muster, the black tube wriggling about.

I pull her into me and kiss her forehead. “We’re not going to report this one right away, got it?”

“What if he gets out?”

“He can try, I suppose.”

“Promise me this bastard will never see the light of day again, and I promise you I won’t report it to Jonah, yet.”

“That I can promise you.” I nudge him with my shoe and set the breathing tube back to his mouth. I don’t want him dead. Yet.

Oliver issues one more stomp to his genitals, and Simon grunts beneath the plastic, his body jerking in obvious pain. “T-T-Take that, asshole.”

Shifting her attention from Simon to Oliver, Nola shakes her head, a slight smile stretching her lips, and ruffles her son’s hair. “Let’s get out of here before I decide to kick his breathing tube loose again.” Arm wrapped around Oli, Nola guides her son out of the pole barn. “When did this happen? Your talking.”

“F-F-Few times. I p-p-p-practiced in my r-r-r-room.”

“Well, keep practicing.” She leans in to kiss him on the forehead. “Because I’ve really missed that sound.”

Crouching once more, I stare down at Simon, who’s hardly discernible through the thick latex. “When I cut your eyeballs out, I’ll be sure to keep you alive,” I say, smiling as his muffled cries carry up through the breathing tube. “Sweet dreams.”