But I didn’t regret it.
Because even though my whole body ached and my eye stung from the blood in it and I was scared and I quite honestly wanted to call out for my Mom and Dad, I was also so angry that I felt like I could tear off his head with my bare hands. Just rip it right the hell off and squash it between my gloved palms.
For four months, this son of a bitch hadn’t allowed me to have a moment of genuine peace. He was always lurking in my mind, keeping me from focusing on my schoolwork, keeping me from having a normal relationship with my girlfriend, trying to put a huge black mark on my future.
I was done with him. This ended tonight. And I was going to win.
I let out a cry of fury—which wasn’t my intent; it just happened—and ran at him.
His eyes widened in surprise. I guess he thought I was ready to just give up.
I tackled him.
I had rage, adrenaline, and determination on my side…yet I was still a chubby non-athletic teenager who was up against a serial killer who did manual labor all day. My attack elicited a grunt as I collided with him, but had no real impact. He shoved me against the wall again, adding a new spatter of blood to his décor. Then he strode toward me.
I frantically looked around for something I could use as a weapon.
There was plenty of stuff, but he got there before I could grab anything.
He smashed me into the wall. The back of my head struck the wood paneling and my vision went black for an instant.
He did it again.
And again.
“You really thought you were going to beat me?” Mr. Martin asked. He ran his finger across my forehead, held it up so I could see the blood, then wiped it under my nose. “Gave you a blood mustache,” he said. “You’re too young to grow anything but peach fuzz, and you seriously thought you were going to win?”
He smashed me into the wall once more.
“That wasn’t hypothetical,” he said. “That was a real question. Did you really think you were going to win?”
“Yes,” I said. Some flecks of blood sprayed from my mouth onto his face when I said it.
“You’re an idiot. You could’ve made some new friends in the slammer. Now I have to beat you to death. I’m going to beat you until you’re muck, Curtis. Muck. Sludge. But I may take some parts with me as souvenirs. Maybe your heart and one of your arms. I didn’t keep any parts of Todd or the others, and I always kind of regretted it. I won’t make that mistake again.”
I spat some blood in his face, this time on purpose.
He smashed me against the wall yet again.
“Let him go,” said Tina.
Mr. Martin and I both glanced over at the stairs. Tina was walking down them, followed by Ed, Mick, Burt, and Josh. They all had shovels, and they looked ready to beat somebody to death with them.
Mr. Martin looked back at me, then back at them, then back at me.
He wiped off the blood I’d spit in his face.
Stepped away from me.
My legs began to buckle but I forced myself to remain upright.
“You kids better get off my property,” he said. “You’re trespassing.”
“Are you okay?” Tina asked me.
I nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Then I winced as blood ran into my right eye as well. I kept it open because blindness would be extremely inconvenient right now, but it burned like crazy.
All five of them walked down the stairs into the basement. Mr. Martin was starting to look twitchy, as if he wanted nothing more than to engage in wholesale slaughter but knew he couldn’t beat five shovel-wielding teenagers.
“I’ll call the police,” he said. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” He pointed to me. “He broke into my house. I’m within my rights to defend myself. You’ll all go to jail. Every one of you needs to walk right back up those stairs and get the hell out of my house.”
“No,” said Tina. “We won’t be doing that.”
“So what are you going to do?” Mr. Martin asked. “Beat me to death?”
“I already told you the plan,” I said. “It hasn’t changed.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“You’re taking us to Todd’s body.”
“And I told you that was impossible.”
“And I told you that I don’t believe you.”
Mr. Martin shrugged. “I can’t find it again. If you want to kill me, kill me, but there’s nothing I can do.”
“We’re not going to kill you,” I said. “I’m just going to let them shatter your hands.”
I wished I’d said this in a more sinister and descriptive manner. “I’m going to let each of them shatter one finger in turn, starting with your pinky. Don’t make the mistake of believing that they’re going to do it quickly and efficiently. They’re going to use the tips of their shovels and crush your poor fingers until they’re—what’s the word you used?—muck. Sludge. And when they’re finally done, and you’re gaping in horror at the bloody mess that used to be your left hand, I’ll ask you again to take me to Todd Lester’s burial place. And I’ll expect a different answer. Now, Mr. Martin, do we understand each other?” But I was lucky I could talk at all. My version was abbreviated but coherent.
“Let me shatter his hands anyway,” said Ed. I wasn’t sure if he was playing along or if the request was legitimate. For my own peace of mind, I decided that he was just playing along.
“All right,” said Mr. Martin. “I’ll do what I can. I can’t make any promises.”
“That’s a better answer,” I said. “But it’s still not the right answer. You are taking us to Todd’s body, and it’s going to get worse and worse for you the longer it takes. If you think you can wait us out, take us to the wrong spots
