Crossroads Shadowland (12 page)

"Shut up, you sniveling pussy. I'll bet Rand
didn't beg for his life."

"No, he didn't, sir. He
kicked Martin so hard in the balls he'll never be
able to have kids."

Frank stifled his rage. "Another blessing.
Now haul your asses out, faces to the wall, palms flat and over
your heads."

"Mr. McGuire—"

"You say one more word,
Martin, I'll blow your fucking head off right
here." They scrambled out with Frank on their heels. He snuck
up behind
them, leaned in and whispered
between their ears. "Strip, everything off."

Frank took immense pleasure
in the uncontrollable tremors seizing
their naked flesh. He holstered the Glock, set the shoulder
bag on the ground
and emptied the
contents, taking his sweet, sweet time. Let them wonder how
much longer they'd have the ability to draw
breath. He hoped by now they
were dying a
thousand deaths like Rand must have been when they punched his face
in and broke his jaw.

Frank regulated his
breathing and spoke to his conscience. A long,
warring-with-his-emotions minute later, he plucked two
lengths of hemp from
the pile. "Wrists
behind your back."

Ringo sobbed. "Oh, please—"

"Face to the wall
dough-boy! If I have to tell you again, I'll shoot your
balls off and take that pencil-dick with
'em."

Damn. A rush of
satisfaction pulsed through Frank's blood, small
compensation for what he'd be experiencing right
now if he'd allow his
lawless, dark side
to surface. He secured their wrists so tight, he wondered if
they'd lose their fingers before long. Another
minor surge of fulfillment
emerged. Frank
looked at the sky with the awareness dawn would break
soon.

Showtime.

"Turn around." They rotated
front. Martin's eyes were clamped shut and
Ringo watched him with the sight of a hawk. Frank picked up
the duck tape
and scissor from the cement.
Beginning at the top of Ringo's head, he rolled
the tape round and round, covering his eyes, his nose and
chin, leaving only a
small hole near his
lips. With smug contentment, he did the same to Martin.

"Just shoot me, man. I
can't take much more of this." Ringo's voice cut
through the opening on a broken
whimper.

"Shoot you? Hell, no, not yet. It would be
over too quick."

When Martin's knees
collapsed, Frank opened the scissor and pinched
his flaccid penis between the cold metal. "Uh-uh. Stand up or
I'll snip it off.
Bloody mess, that," he
added for effect.

Martin straightened his spine and heaved a
strangled cry.

"Let's see, have I
forgotten anything? Naked? Check. Hands secured
behind your backs? Check. Sight obliterated? Check. Fuck me,
the most
important part."

Frank grabbed the placards
near his feet and slipped them over their
heads. "Oh, I wish you could see yourselves. Tell you what,
I'll take a snapshot
from my cell phone
for Rand, and mail a copy to your families."

"Shoot us, you bastard!
Just fucking shoot us and get it over with!"
Silence fell over the deserted alley. "If only you knew how
much I want
to. As it is, I'll leave that
to some other lucky devil that crosses your path in the
near future." He grabbed them by their elbows and
dragged them from the
alley. With the last
length of hemp, he tied them to the street sign back-to-
back.

"Oh, I don't want to leave
you in suspense. You're at the busiest
intersection on Bourbon Street, naked as the wretched days
you were born,
with signs around your
necks."

Ringo's blue lips trembled.
"What do they say? Tell us, you prick, before
you leave."

"Gladly." Frank snapped a
picture and paused to study his handiwork
before answering. "Spit on us; we're guilty of a viscous,
heinous hate crime."

Frank headed for Martin's
parked car, slumped behind the wheel and ran his hand over his
brow. He punched 911 into his cell phone, dialed the
New Orleans Police Department and told dispatch
where they could find
Martin and
Ringo.

Exhaustion threatened to
claim him as he glanced in the rearview
mirror. Rand's smiling face appeared like a mirage. "You're
not getting older, Frank, you're getting better."

He turned the ignition key
and headed north toward the hospital. Like a
stalking phantom, he'd take up a vigil beside Rand's bed. The
moment he
opened his eyes, Frank would
apologize for his hasty words and hope Rand
forgave him.

Damn, Baltimore seemed so
far away right now. Frank took a left at the
corner and the hospital came into view. He smiled. Home
wasn't a fancy condo
or a three-bedroom
rambler on a corner lot. Not for Frank anyway. His home
lay in a hospital bed down the street and lived
in his heart.

Frank parked at the curb,
slid from the seat and bounded from the
vehicle. His steps were lighter as he walked toward the
massive brick
building.

In two minutes, he'd be home.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Keta lives in the Midwest
portion of the country on six acres of beautiful
woodland. Here, she communes with nature; eagles,
owls and loons (the
winged version).
There's a lovely environmental lake on her property named
after a famous Native American chief, and the
locals insist burial grounds from
150
years ago exist in her woods. Hmm. Maybe it's not always the wind
she
hears howling at night.

When Keta isn't writing
she loves to read and garden and spends far too
much time at the local animal shelter trying to wrangle a way
to adopt them
all. Two years ago she
adopted Emma LaPounce, a mid-life feline who was in crisis when her
long-time owners moved out of town, took their furniture but
left her behind.

To find out more about
Keta and her books, visit her website:
http://www.ketadiablo.com/

ALSO PUBLISHED BY BWLPP

Crossroads

Crossroads Revisited

Crossroads Showdown

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