Page 135 of Vile Bastards
There’s a grunt followed by a scream, the sound of breaking glass, the crack of a fist against a face.
“Somebody’s ticked-off and needs to release some pent-up energy,” Bohnes muses, studying the knife in his hands. “Although for what that man just said to you, I’ll bury him.” He looks up with a dark half-smile on his face that both frightens and excites me in equal measures. I mean, it’s nice when your man steps up to defend your honor, you know? “But we’ll see how the Kelly boy fares first.”
Widow, on the other hand, is much less calm. After about fifteen seconds, he curses and follows Ash over the fence, using the trash can in much the same way. With a sigh, Bohnes shakes his head and then he, too, is hopping the fence.
Only Alexei stays with me, but he is wearing his thimble with a needle tucked under the metal nail, more than ready to stab a bitch if necessary.
Our eyes meet.
“If you want to join them …” I start, but then it goes silent on the other side of the fence, and Bohnes is popping up to peer at me above the slats. “What? Please tell me that something hasn’t gone terribly wrong over there.”
“You might want to come and see this,” Bohnes suggests lightly, and then he’s disappearing from view, and I’m heaving a tired sigh.
“I’ll escort you,” Marie offers, holding out a gloved hand for me to take. I frown a little at that, but I accept. Then, of course, I tear his glove off, shove it in my pocket, and squeeze our naked fingers together. He blanches, and beads of sweat appear all across his forehead, but he doesn’t pull away.
Instead, he leads me out the gate and around the front, past the connected garages, and over to Megan Face’s stoop where Bohnes is waiting. I should probably be surprised that he’s inside their house, but eh. I’m not. Not even remotely.
“What the hell are you guys doing?” I murmur as he steps aside, and I frown at the dank smell of the place. It’s like a gamer’s basement bedroom—that Doritos/Mountain Dew/body odor smell—mixed with the pungent reek of cat piss and rot.
Thank the heavens that both garages lie between their house and ours. We don’t share any walls but for that one. Otherwise, I bet the smell would’ve seeped into my grandma’s place.
Ash is nowhere to be seen, but Widow is there, squatting beside a comatose Tommy and checking his pulse.
“You didn’t kill him, did you?” I whisper, glancing toward the open front door as if my mom or sister might just pop up out of nowhere. It’s a possibility, especially when it comes to Alexis.
“Not as such,” Bohnes replies, which isn’t much of an answer at all.
“He’s alive.” Widow rises to his feet, as graceful as he is hulking. Truly, it’s a privilege just to watch him move. He glances up at me. “Unfortunately.”
“Then what is it?” I ask, releasing Alexei’s hand. He doesn’t go for his wipes or his hand sanitizer which is nice, but he does stare down at the sticky linoleum beneath his feet with a shuddering grimace.
“Have these heathens never heard of a mop?” he queries, but I ignore him, heading into the garage to find Ash standing beside the wall. How he ended up in here, I’m not certain, but I can see why he called me in.
There are several holes in the wall. Small ones, but holes, nonetheless. Ash reaches out and plucks what appears to be a small camera from one, turning and holding it up to me.
“What the hell?” I whisper, stalking down the garage steps and moving quickly over to him. I snatch the camera from his fingers and then glance up at another of the small holes, removing a mic. When I lean in to peer through the small space, I can see the door that leads to our living room.
This particular hole is positioned just so, between two shelves and next to a cardboard box. It’d be nearly invisible to spot with the naked eye unless one was actively searching for, well, hidden surveillance.
The next thing I notice is Megan herself, that hideous Tommy tattoo stretched across her chest. It only serves to highlight the very obvious rippling of her breast implants. That, and the myriad bruises on her chest and throat. She’s lying on her side, just in front of Tommy’s shitty 1990 Ford F450.
As I stand there staring at her, Widow comes in and checks her pulse, too.
“She’s alive,” he confirms, gently turning her over and using a nearby bag to prop up her head. At first, it appears to be stuffed full of old clothes. But then I notice something that’s far too strange to be mere coincidence. “We didn’t touch her, by the way. She was like this when we chased the guy inside.”
