Page 36 of Agony

He called it insane. He was fucked up and had been since childhood.

Sure, the memories would come back eventually, but he had to wait for clarity. The doctors said when he stayed calm and reduced his stress, everything would fall back into place.

Fuck that.

He liked that he forgot the bad stuff. It helped him live.

A door opened in the distance and Fisher watched as Murphy Blackwell stepped outside of the small, dark brown cabin.

The sexual predator was on the FBI’s list. Blackwell wore a heavy waterproof breaker the color of shit brown along with a pair of waders. It was a long walk to the kill shack the fucker kept deep in the wilderness at the edge of the property.

Victims were snatched from a distant town or city and here was where they lived out their last days—terrified, hurting, and alone.

Jobs like this always reminded him of what he could remember of his own childhood.

But fuck it. He rubbed at the pain in his chest. After he took down Blackwell, the horror of his childhood would return to its neat little box tucked into his brain.

Perhaps someday the echoes of his past would fade completely.

He could only hope.

But he wasn’t going to bet on it.

Last night, he had carved out the trail through the trees that ran parallel to the mud-ridden path Blackwell took and when Blackwell headed off down the muddy path, Fisher slipped through the undergrowth.

With soaked leaves beneath his black hiking boots, he walked with ease, knowing the rain would drown out anything else.

Blackwell opened the padlock to the small wooden building that was roughly the size of the cabin down below—small yet big enough to work comfortably.

Fisher lifted the sledgehammer he’d placed nearby last night and moved until he was off to the side of the open doorway.

He smiled at the bellow Blackwell made. The rage-filled sound echoed from within when the man realized that the girl he’d brought back a few nights ago was not in her chains.

The squelching and stomping of the predator’s waders grew closer to the door.

It was a matter of timing and Fisher had that in spades.

He cocked back the sledgehammer and when Blackwell stepped out with a hurried stride, Fisher swung.

Blackwell grunted beneath the impact and stumbled.

Fisher swung again. Taking out the man’s knee. The howl of pain was music to his ears. Blackwell flipped onto his stomach and crawled back into the kill shack.

Fisher calmly walked after the fucker and kicked the door shut. Taking his time, he lit a few of the oil lamps he’d scoped out when he’d freed the girl.

The soft glow lit up the room.

“Who the fuck are you?” Blackwell cried, rolling to his back and clutching at his knee.

“Who I am is not important. Who you are, on the other hand, is.” Fisher hefted the heavy hammer over one shoulder and walked over to a large workbench where Blackwell kept his tools.

“You’ve got the wrong guy. I’m innocent.” Blackwell managed to pull himself up to sit against the wall.

Blood poured from the man’s leg, some dripped from his mouth. Fisher was sure he’d cracked ribs with the first blow, but Blackwell was a trooper and only panted through the pain.

Fisher spun, his movements light, and he felt like a dancer of death.

He leaped across to the perp in seconds and swung the hammer. He broke Blackwell’s arm beyond repair. While the fucker howled, Fisher destroyed both of the man’s hands, one right after the other.

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