But what gets Philip to draw back and stand up, and hurriedly pull his pants back on, is the fact that this figure is moving toward the orchard.
Toward the place where Penny resides.
Philip exits the barn and instantly sees a figure plunging into the shadows of the orchard. The figure is a compact, trim man in his thirties clad in a sweater and jeans, carrying a huge rusty spade over his shoulder.
“Nick!”
Philip’s warning cry goes unheeded. Nick has already vanished into the trees.
Drawing the nine-millimeter from behind his belt, Philip charges toward the orchard. He snaps a round into the chamber as he plunges into the woods. Darkness gives way to the beam of a flashlight.
Fifty feet away, Nick Parsons is shining a light on the livid face of the Penny-thing.
“NICK!”
Nick whirls suddenly with the shovel raised, and the flashlight tumbles out of his hand. “It’s gone too far, Philly, it’s gone too far.”
“Put the shovel down,” Philip says as he approaches with the gun raised. The flashlight beam shines up into the leaves, casting an eerie, pale glow over everything, like a grainy black-and-white film.
“You can’t do this to your daughter, you don’t realize what you’re doing.”
“Put it down.”
“You’re keeping her soul from entering heaven, Philly.”
“Shut up!”
Twenty feet away, the Penny-thing yanks on its bonds in the shadows. The cockeyed beam of the flashlight highlights her monstrous features from below. Her eyes reflect the dry silver light.
“Philly, listen to me.” Nick lowers the shovel, his voice unsteady with emotion. “You have to let her die … she’s one of God’s children. Please … I’m begging you as a Christian … please let her go.”
Philip aims the Glock directly at Nick’s forehead. “If she dies … you die next.”
For a moment, Nick Parsons looks crestfallen, absolutely beaten.
Then he drops the shovel, hangs his head, and walks back toward the villa.
Throughout all this, the Penny-thing keeps its sharklike gaze on the man it once called father.
Brian continues to heal. Six days after the beating, he feels strong enough to get out of bed and limp around the house. His hip twinges with every step, and the dizziness comes in waves whenever he goes up and down the stairs, but on the whole, he’s doing pretty well. His bruises have faded and the swelling has gone down, and he feels his appetite returning. He also has a good talk with Philip.
“I miss her something fierce,” Brian says to his brother late one night in the kitchen, each man suffering from severe insomnia. “I’d trade places with her in a heartbeat if it meant bringing her back.”
Philip looks down. He has developed a series of very subtle tics, which emerge when he’s under pressure— sniffing, pursing his lips, clearing his throat. “I know, sport. It ain’t your fault … what happened out there. I never should have done that to you.”
Brian’s eyes moisten. “I probably would have done the same thing.”
“Let’s put it behind us.”
“Sure.” Brian wipes his eyes. He looks at Philip. “So, what’s the deal with the people in the barn?”
Philip looks up. “What about ’em?”
“The whole thing has Nick on edge … and you can hear things out there … at night, I’m talking about. Nick thinks you’re, like … pulling their fingernails off.”
A cold smile twitches at the corner of Philip’s mouth. “That’s sick.”
Brian isn’t smiling. “Philip, whatever you’re doing out there, it’s not going to bring Penny back.”
Philip looks down again. “I know that … don’t you think I know that?”
“Then I’m begging you to stop. Whatever it is you’re doing …
Philip looks up with embers of emotion in his eyes. “That trash out there in the barn stole everything that mattered to me … that bald motherfucker and his crew … them two junkies … they destroyed the life of a beautiful innocent little girl and they did it outta sheer meanness and greed. Ain’t nothing I could do to them would suffice.”
Brian sighs. Further protest seems futile, so he simply stares at his coffee.
“And you’re wrong about it not serving any purpose,” Philip concludes, after a moment of thought. “It serves the purpose of making me feel better.”
The next night, after the lanterns go out, and the fires in the three separate fireplaces dwindle down to coals, and the northeasterly wind begins toying with the dormers and loose shingles, Brian is lying in bed in the sewing room, trying to lull himself into a troubled sleep, when he hears the door latch click and sees the silhouette of Nick Parsons slipping into his room. Brian sits up. “What’s going on?”
“Sssshhh,” Nick whispers, coming across the room and kneeling by the bed. Nick has his coat on, his gloves, and a bulge on his hip that looks like the grip of a handgun. “Keep it down.”
“What is it?”
“Your brother’s asleep … finally.”
“So what?”
“So we gotta do a—whaddaya callit—an intervention.”
“What are you talking about? Penny? You’re talking about trying to take Penny out again?”
“No! The barn, man! The barn!”
Brian moves to the edge of the bed and rubs his eyes, stretches his sore limbs, shakes the cobwebs off. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”
They slip out the back, each one of them armed with a handgun. Nick has the bald man’s .357 steel-plated revolver, Brian has a snub-nose that belonged to one of the thug gunmen. They steal across the property to the barn, and Brian shines a flashlight on the padlock. They find a piece of timber in a woodpile, and they use it to pry open the rotted doors, making as little noise as possible.
Brian’s heart hammers in his chest as they slip inside the dark barn.
The stench of mold and urine fills their senses as they work their way back through the fetid shadows to the rear of the barn, where two dark heaps lie on the floor in puddles of blood as black as oil. At first, the shapes don’t even look human, but when the beam of Brian’s flashlight falls on a pale face, Brian lets out a gasp.
“Holy fucking shit.”
The man and woman are still alive, barely, their faces disfigured and swollen, their midsections exposed like raw meat. A thin tendril of steam rises from festering, sucking wounds. Both captives are semiconscious, their parboiled eyes fixed on the rafters. The woman is brutalized, a broken doll with legs akimbo and blood patterns covering her pasty, tattooed flesh.
Brian begins to tremble. “Holy shit … what have we…? Holy
Nick kneels by the woman. “Brian, get some water.”
“What about—”
“Get it from the well! Hurry!”
Brian hands over his flashlight, spins, and hustles back the way he came.
Nick shines the light on the constellation of wounds and sores—some old and infected, some fresh—across a hundred percent of their twisted bodies. The man’s chest rises and falls quickly, convulsively, with shallow breaths. The woman struggles to fix her rheumy gaze on Nick. She is blinking wildly.
Her lips move beneath the duct tape. Nick starts to carefully peel the gag away from her mouth.
“P-p-pleeee … kuhhh…” She’s trying to say something urgent but Nick can’t understand her.
“It’s okay, we’re gonna get you outta here, it’s okay, you’re gonna make it.”
“K-khhh…”
“Cold?” Nick tries to pull her pants back on her. “Try to breathe, try to—”
“K-khhlll.”
