Read Online Hunting Season by Erik Williams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erik Williams
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preserved it the last five years. If he shot her...
"Testify, point the finger, drop a dime on any of my activities, tell a DA about some other bodies I dropped in the past, I take you with me. Run, walk or even crawl out of town, this gun with your prints ends up on a cop's front door with directions to the body with your bullet in it."
The hooker screamed around the gag.
"You work for me, son. You're mine."
"You've got me. I swear it. I'll do whatever you want. Run powder, meth, anything. Just don't kill her."
"Your word means shit to me. Knowing you hold murders and drugs over my head, knowing you can run at any moment, is unacceptable. I need to stamp you with blood, son. Her blood."
"Why not just kill me? Huh? If you're so concerned about me, insure I'll never talk."
"You're worth more to me alive."
"The money, okay. I'll give you Walter's money."
Dad tilted his head. "What money?"
"Walter's money. I have it. I took it the night before you killed him. He was too high to remember."
"You set Walter up?"
"Yeah, and I'll give you the money if you let me walk."
"You let me kill Walter to keep the money. You did your time to pay off the guilt. And you have the nerve to judge me you little shit? Let me do your dirty work for you."
"I paid what I owed with time. I took the rap to get away from you. And I'll give you the money to square us and her."
"The hundred thousand." Dad chuckled. "I make that in a month running meth. Keeping you under my thumb is worth more than that, especially now that I know what a slimy piece of shit you truly are."
My arms twitched. My hands shook. Panic released adrenaline flooded me. My chest burned.
Dad turned and looked down the barrel of the .357 into the hooker's brown eyes. Only a few moments until he squeezed that trigger. The crazy bastard would kill her just to keep me in line, keep me close.
"Sorry, honey."
I glanced around me for a weapon within arm's reach. Found nothing. Then I remembered the Swiss Army knife.
I pulled the knife out of my jeans pocket, flipped the blade, and stepped forward. Dad caught me out of his peripheral, though, and twisted toward me, the switchblade springing to life in his other hand.
Closing the distance before he could bring the blade up into my guts, I shuttled forward fast and thrust the tip of the Swiss Army knife into the side of my father's neck as he caught me in the love handle with the switchblade.
He screamed and tried to wheel around with the gun. I slapped his hand with my left, knocking the .357 to the floor. The gun erupted, the round shattering one of the windows.
I kicked him in the back of the knee and took him to the floor. Dad tried to fight me off but I dropped all my weight on his sternum. His smoky breath hit me in the face and sent me into a stabbing rage. His hand let go of the switchblade, leaving it sunk into the soft flesh of my side.
Over and over I thrust the knife into his neck. His warm blood soaked my hand so much I lost my grip on the knife, leaving three quarters of it in the soft tissue under his jaw.
Dad's breaths grew short then stopped. His eyes rolled up and looked toward the now shattered window. The hooker continued to belt her muffled wail.
I looked at my hand. The bloody sight would have repulsed me if I didn't know whose blood it was. That bit of knowledge filled me with a sense of warmth and confidence. It was over. Finally, it was over. I should have known I could never run away from him. It was always going to come down to him or me and he had to die for me to be free.
The howling of the hooker snapped me back to the now. I pulled the switchblade from my side. The wound bled like a sonofabitch but I'd live. I wiped my hand on Dad's chest, and then went to remove the gag from her mouth.
I stopped short. She'd heard and seen everything. She could tell her story about how Dad had planned
"Testify, point the finger, drop a dime on any of my activities, tell a DA about some other bodies I dropped in the past, I take you with me. Run, walk or even crawl out of town, this gun with your prints ends up on a cop's front door with directions to the body with your bullet in it."
The hooker screamed around the gag.
"You work for me, son. You're mine."
"You've got me. I swear it. I'll do whatever you want. Run powder, meth, anything. Just don't kill her."
"Your word means shit to me. Knowing you hold murders and drugs over my head, knowing you can run at any moment, is unacceptable. I need to stamp you with blood, son. Her blood."
"Why not just kill me? Huh? If you're so concerned about me, insure I'll never talk."
"You're worth more to me alive."
"The money, okay. I'll give you Walter's money."
Dad tilted his head. "What money?"
"Walter's money. I have it. I took it the night before you killed him. He was too high to remember."
"You set Walter up?"
"Yeah, and I'll give you the money if you let me walk."
"You let me kill Walter to keep the money. You did your time to pay off the guilt. And you have the nerve to judge me you little shit? Let me do your dirty work for you."
"I paid what I owed with time. I took the rap to get away from you. And I'll give you the money to square us and her."
"The hundred thousand." Dad chuckled. "I make that in a month running meth. Keeping you under my thumb is worth more than that, especially now that I know what a slimy piece of shit you truly are."
My arms twitched. My hands shook. Panic released adrenaline flooded me. My chest burned.
Dad turned and looked down the barrel of the .357 into the hooker's brown eyes. Only a few moments until he squeezed that trigger. The crazy bastard would kill her just to keep me in line, keep me close.
"Sorry, honey."
I glanced around me for a weapon within arm's reach. Found nothing. Then I remembered the Swiss Army knife.
I pulled the knife out of my jeans pocket, flipped the blade, and stepped forward. Dad caught me out of his peripheral, though, and twisted toward me, the switchblade springing to life in his other hand.
Closing the distance before he could bring the blade up into my guts, I shuttled forward fast and thrust the tip of the Swiss Army knife into the side of my father's neck as he caught me in the love handle with the switchblade.
He screamed and tried to wheel around with the gun. I slapped his hand with my left, knocking the .357 to the floor. The gun erupted, the round shattering one of the windows.
I kicked him in the back of the knee and took him to the floor. Dad tried to fight me off but I dropped all my weight on his sternum. His smoky breath hit me in the face and sent me into a stabbing rage. His hand let go of the switchblade, leaving it sunk into the soft flesh of my side.
Over and over I thrust the knife into his neck. His warm blood soaked my hand so much I lost my grip on the knife, leaving three quarters of it in the soft tissue under his jaw.
Dad's breaths grew short then stopped. His eyes rolled up and looked toward the now shattered window. The hooker continued to belt her muffled wail.
I looked at my hand. The bloody sight would have repulsed me if I didn't know whose blood it was. That bit of knowledge filled me with a sense of warmth and confidence. It was over. Finally, it was over. I should have known I could never run away from him. It was always going to come down to him or me and he had to die for me to be free.
The howling of the hooker snapped me back to the now. I pulled the switchblade from my side. The wound bled like a sonofabitch but I'd live. I wiped my hand on Dad's chest, and then went to remove the gag from her mouth.
I stopped short. She'd heard and seen everything. She could tell her story about how Dad had planned
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