Satan’s Lambs by Lynn Hightower

tried.
    She could hear Charlie wail as she ran up the stairs. Her hands grew slippery on the bat. A woman screamed—Eloise—her voice mixing with her son’s in a high-pitched cacophony of panic.
    Blood. A child watching. Predator male.
    This time, Lena thought, I will not let it happen. This time I’ll get there first.
    In her mind’s eye she saw Hayes—curly black hair, cold blue eyes, jawline edged with five o’clock shadow. Pressed black pinstripe suits, a voice in the middle of the night, seashells on the pillow.
    The door was ajar. Lena went through.
    The folded laundry had been knocked sideways and strewn across the floor. The stool was overturned, the magazines scattered.
    â€œNo, no, Archie!”
    Eloise’s voice.
    A gurgling cry made the hair stand up on Lena’s neck. She ran.
    It was close, tight, and dark in the hallway. The walls were spattered with blood. Valetta held a broken bottle, the jagged green edges clotted with tissue. Blood oozed over the Coca-Cola trademark and coated his fingers bright red.
    Eloise had one hand clamped over her eyes. She was jammed against the wall, shirt torn open, hair every which way, lips split and puffed. Black blood ran between her fingers. In her other hand she clutched the phone receiver, the broken cord trailing over her shoulder. Eloise’s mouth was open, but she made no sound. She slid down the wall and crumpled to the floor.
    Charlie stood in the bedroom doorway, belly pouched forward, finger in his mouth. A paralytic stillness had settled over him; a child turned to stone.
    Archie Valetta moved toward Lena, wary but unafraid. He was muscular—a prison weight lifter. An inverted silver cross hung from his right ear. He looked at the bat and smiled.
    Probably figures I don’t have the nerve, Lena thought.
    She swung the bat sideways and cracked it solidly against the side of Valetta’s left knee. He roared and fell backward. She swung the bat up over his head.
    Valetta rolled. He snatched Charlie’s legs, knocking the child to the floor. Charlie sobbed, scooted sideways, and curled into a ball.
    Lena reached for him.
    Valetta was there ahead of her, gathering the child close, tucking the small head under his chin. Static electricity mingled Charlie’s fine blond hair with Valetta’s coarse red beard.
    The stink of sweat was thick.
    â€œBack off, bitch.” Valetta squeezed and Charlie whimpered softly. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, Wonder Woman, but if you give a shit about this kid, you better back off now.”
    Sweat rolled down Valetta’s temples, and his breath came in great heaving gulps.
    â€œPut the kid down,” Lena said. “Do it now.” She arced the bat toward his knee.
    Valetta put a huge hand on Charlie’s throat, covering the small neck from sternum to chin.
    â€œJust a squeeze, little girl. That’s all it’ll take.”
    A wet stain spread across the front of Charlie’s blue cotton shorts, and urine ran in a trickle down his leg. The little body sagged in Valetta’s arms, as if the child could take anything but that final shame.
    And Valetta was on his feet, moving sideways, crablike.
    â€œDon’t call the cops, bitch. I see a cop and I’ll throw the kid off the bike.”
    Lena was still holding the bat when Mendez came. He was there, as always, in time to pick up the pieces. Lena saw him take everything in; the laundry, so carefully washed and folded, now strewn across the couch and the floor; the empty pizza box, crumpled on the side where it had been trampled; the torn coloring book.
    He almost came to her, then held back. Perceptive, she thought. In her mind she saw her sister in the driveway.
    Don’t think about it. Don’t think.
    Lena bounced the bat on the carpet. Mendez went into the kitchen. Eloise had been starting another cake when Archie had arrived. There were blood splats on the kitchen floor.