The Devil's Dream: Waking Up by David Beers Page B

things weren't right, weighed on him, pushed him towards it.
    No, his mind answered the calling. He did this too. He let this happen as much as I did.
    Art's stomach clenched, sweat springing from the pores on his forehead at the thought. He'd never felt something like this before; the respect, the ingrained subservience to God, weaved through Art as surely as his own DNA. And yet, he wouldn't pray. He wouldn't ask God for a single fucking thing, because he imagined Henry Werzen was asking for a lot right now without anything being delivered.
    Fuck you, he thought. Fuck you for allowing any of this to happen.
    The door opened slowly in front of Art, and Jake stood in the opening; the kid’s whole face sung a song of sorrow. He had never experienced something like this before, never been responsible for someone else's death. The man and woman that owned the lumber shop hadn't been his fault, per se—he simply hadn't moved fast enough. Now though, this could be put on him. Henry Werzen's death fit comfortably on Jake's shoulders, and looking at him now, it appeared Jake felt that new weight.
    "What do we do?" Jake asked.
    Art turned around to face the yard. "I don't know. I don't know what to do."
    He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Jesus, no. Not this. Not now. He reached inside and pulled the phone out, already knowing the number he would see. No number at all. Private. And there it was, parading across his screen as if Art should be happy to see it.
    His hand shook as he brought the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
    “Don’t say a word, Art. Just listen. You got that? Not one word if you want this kid to live another second. I'm not a cursing type of person, Art. Not if I can help it. The English language is an amazing thing, with so many words and intricacies to express oneself with, why use gutter words unnecessarily? Still, I don't know any other way, any other words, that can adequately express what calling you a stupid fuck can. You're. A. Stupid. Fuck. Do you have any idea what you just did? You thought that you could trick me and then track me. You thought that you and the boy wonder over there were going to outsmart me, by using Rally, by using my family against me. More, you sent some kid still wet behind the ears to do the job. It didn't work, Art. Henry Werzen is not Victor Trust, is he? I did a bit of research on Henry Werzen once I got the name out of the kid; a twenty-four year old FBI agent with a law degree from Duke. That's what you thought was going to take me down. You thought that would save you? You stupid, stupid fuck. Now you've got a young kid in a lot of pain. And I mean a lot, Art. I'm going to ratchet that pain up every single chance I get too, because I want you to know it's all on you. You probably didn't come up with the idea, you're not clever enough for that, but you certainly gave the approval. In the grand scheme of things, one more dead isn't going to matter, but Henry is going to hurt a lot before he dies. More than Jeffrey Dillan, even, because of the way you tried to use me.
    Understand something, Art. There's no stopping me. This was already over the moment I woke up.”
    Art’s hand still shook as the line dropped.

11
    J oe closed his eyes and tried to brace himself. He knew what was coming, but he didn't know what it would feel like. He'd only seen people hosed like this, and then only on documentaries about the Civil Rights movement.
    He and twenty other people, all naked, stood in a cell made of cinder blocks. He didn't know where it was in relation to the holding cell—the place in which his hands were held above his head twenty-four hours a day and the ligaments in his shoulders slowly ripped apart from the pressure. They gagged and blindfolded him on the way here, removing both when they finally threw him into this room. Other men and women stood around him, all of them naked too. The smell of filth filtered up through Joe's nose, even after so much time spent with it.