Page 60 of Good and Gone

When I bring him up, my dad put his gun down on a crate and looks at me. He's holding a long piece of rope in one hand and a pair of pliers in the other.

"I guess I'll give him one more chance," I say, dunking his head again. "I've always hated seeing blood."

Two attempts later, and he finally tells me where the safe house is located. He spits out an address.

Dad calls Tristan and tells him to check it out. “He’ll let us know,” my father says, hanging up the phone.

Eddie Adams has always been a loner, but when Tristan showed up at the local diner on Thanksgiving, bloodied and bruised, my father took him in, no questions asked. He was twelve then, and that was thirteen Novembers ago. He’s an interesting kid, but I trust him. Mostly because my dad does, and Eddie doesn’t trust anyone. Not even me.

While we wait for word from Tristan about the safe house, I lead Hailey over to John Doe, and with a triumphant grin on my face, I hand her the gun. She holds it with steady hands.

"Both knee caps," I say.

She looks down at him, and for a moment I think she's going to hesitate. But then she takes a deep breath and steadies her hand. She squeezes the trigger twice in quick succession, and John Doe screams out in agony as two perfect shots blow his kneecaps to bits.

The look of terror on his face is unforgettable as he writhes in pain on the ground. "Good," I say. “He's still capable of running his mouth, but he can’t go far.”

43

Tyler

Several hours later, we finally get the call from Tristan. The address checks out. My father thinks this is the point where we alert the authorities. The plan is to say that Hailey had a new memory crop up, but I have other plans. I want to see this son-of-a-bitch in person.

I load Hailey up and we make the drive. I pass the house twice, trying to get a feel for it. There's nothing remarkable about the place. It could be any house, in any neighborhood.

I park two houses down. I don't want him to see me coming. There's a rap on my window, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Tristan.

"Wait here," I say to Hailey, and tears fill her eyes. "Tristan will stay with you."

I walk up to the front door, kick it in, pushing past the trash that litters the hallway.

John Doe or JD or Benny with the blown kneecaps, whatever his name is, told me exactly what I'd find and still I'm not prepared.

I can hear scuffling behind one of the closed doors, and I race toward it, bursting through to find a grim scene.

He’s in a dingy room with a girl, looking like he doesn't have a care in the world. He's tall, with broad shoulders. He has dark hair, cut short and spiked up at the crown. The room smells like an outhouse.

He leers over the girl as she trembles in fear. The girl is kneeling on the floor, her head down and her hands tied behind her back. It is obvious that she has been beaten already; bruises smear her face.

Without thinking twice, I burst into the room and grab him by the collar, pulling him away from her. I shove him to the ground.

Then I pull out my gun and point it straight at his head. His eyes widen in shock as he realizes what's about to happen. He tries to run for it, but there's no escape. I have him cornered.

I cock the gun, ready to pull the trigger, but then I hesitate. I'm not a murderer. I can't do this.

But then I think of all the women he's hurt, all the families he's destroyed. He doesn't deserve to live.

The girl is watching me, her eyes wide and pleading.

And in that moment, I know what I have to do.

I pull the trigger.

The sound echoes through the room and explodes into my head, making my ears ring.

He slumps to the ground.

Dead.