Read Online The Descent From Truth by Gaylon Greer - Free Book Online
Authors: Gaylon Greer
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behind her while the boy nursed. Then, sitting beside her, he shifted Frederick to his lap so he could bind her wrists to the neck tether as before.
He played with Frederick until, after two hours that seemed like two days, the boy began fretting and rubbing his eyes. They went through the nursing procedure again, and Alex carried him to the bedroom. Once there, he held the warm little bundle against his chest and rocked him from foot to foot, lulling him to sleep.
Frederick relaxing against him comforted Alex. Shortly before his mother’s death, when he exploded in anger over one of his father’s extended absences, she’d told him that during his early years his father had soothed him to sleep that way almost every night.
He and his dad had been so close. Then his father began disappearing for long, unexplained intervals, and it all unraveled. The rift grew with every unshared childhood triumph, every uncomforted adolescent hurt, until it became an unbridgeable chasm when his father missed his mother’s funeral. Living with his grandparents while attending high school, Alex had tolerated paternal visits with icy correctness. He and his father could have been client and paid counselor as they discussed Alex’s educational progress and his plans for the future.
Frederick’s breathing settled into the rhythm of sleep, and Alex pushed the childhood memories aside. He tucked the boy into bed, pulled blankets up to the chubby little neck, and brushed a smooth cheek with his lips.
Back in the living room, he put a big log in the fireplace. There was a good bed of coals, so the log would smolder all night.
Sitting with closed eyes, her face frozen in a pained grimace, Pia made no sound other than labored breathing. With her bound hands tucked under her chin, she looked as if she were praying. Swelling made the broken skin on her forehead gape. Blood-tinged tissue, bulging through the fissure, glistened in the firelight.
She would have killed me, Alex reminded himself. He dipped a cup into their pot of melted snow and rummaged through kitchen cabinets until he found a bottle of ibuprofen. “Open your mouth.” He placed two tablets on her tongue and held the cup to her lips.
“More,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
He fed her another cup of water, refusing to meet her gaze. Then he refilled the cup and swallowed two ibuprofen tablets himself. The ache in his shoulder where she’d connected with the iron skillet, and thoughts of what she might have done to Frederick, strengthened his resolve to leave her trussed overnight. Mostly, he felt stupid. He wasn’t about to give her a second chance. He covered her with a blanket and retreated to the bedroom.
Deep into the night he prowled the room, wall to wall, back and forth. He had done the right thing. She would have kept fighting until one of them was unconscious. It could have been him, and he would be dead by now. Who could say what she’d have done to Frederick? Lying in bed with the boy, he curled his arms around the warm little body. After a while, he turned his back on the sleeping form and stretched full-length. Would morning never come?
By degrees, the black rectangle that was the bedroom window turned gray. When morning light filled the cabin, he rekindled the fireplace and checked on his captive.
The lump on her forehead had turned a deep purple. Swelling held the wound open, and blood-laced mucus draining from the split skin had oozed into one eye, plastering it shut. Fatigue lines creased her face. Exhaustion dulled her open eye.
No need to feel guilty. He’d done what his training dictated: overwhelming force, maximum speed. He pushed the sofa closer to the fire, got more ibuprofen and another cup of water, and sat by her.
She opened her mouth, extended her tongue.
He placed two tablets on its tip and held the cup to her dry, cracked lips while she swallowed noisily. “More?” She
He played with Frederick until, after two hours that seemed like two days, the boy began fretting and rubbing his eyes. They went through the nursing procedure again, and Alex carried him to the bedroom. Once there, he held the warm little bundle against his chest and rocked him from foot to foot, lulling him to sleep.
Frederick relaxing against him comforted Alex. Shortly before his mother’s death, when he exploded in anger over one of his father’s extended absences, she’d told him that during his early years his father had soothed him to sleep that way almost every night.
He and his dad had been so close. Then his father began disappearing for long, unexplained intervals, and it all unraveled. The rift grew with every unshared childhood triumph, every uncomforted adolescent hurt, until it became an unbridgeable chasm when his father missed his mother’s funeral. Living with his grandparents while attending high school, Alex had tolerated paternal visits with icy correctness. He and his father could have been client and paid counselor as they discussed Alex’s educational progress and his plans for the future.
Frederick’s breathing settled into the rhythm of sleep, and Alex pushed the childhood memories aside. He tucked the boy into bed, pulled blankets up to the chubby little neck, and brushed a smooth cheek with his lips.
Back in the living room, he put a big log in the fireplace. There was a good bed of coals, so the log would smolder all night.
Sitting with closed eyes, her face frozen in a pained grimace, Pia made no sound other than labored breathing. With her bound hands tucked under her chin, she looked as if she were praying. Swelling made the broken skin on her forehead gape. Blood-tinged tissue, bulging through the fissure, glistened in the firelight.
She would have killed me, Alex reminded himself. He dipped a cup into their pot of melted snow and rummaged through kitchen cabinets until he found a bottle of ibuprofen. “Open your mouth.” He placed two tablets on her tongue and held the cup to her lips.
“More,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
He fed her another cup of water, refusing to meet her gaze. Then he refilled the cup and swallowed two ibuprofen tablets himself. The ache in his shoulder where she’d connected with the iron skillet, and thoughts of what she might have done to Frederick, strengthened his resolve to leave her trussed overnight. Mostly, he felt stupid. He wasn’t about to give her a second chance. He covered her with a blanket and retreated to the bedroom.
Deep into the night he prowled the room, wall to wall, back and forth. He had done the right thing. She would have kept fighting until one of them was unconscious. It could have been him, and he would be dead by now. Who could say what she’d have done to Frederick? Lying in bed with the boy, he curled his arms around the warm little body. After a while, he turned his back on the sleeping form and stretched full-length. Would morning never come?
By degrees, the black rectangle that was the bedroom window turned gray. When morning light filled the cabin, he rekindled the fireplace and checked on his captive.
The lump on her forehead had turned a deep purple. Swelling held the wound open, and blood-laced mucus draining from the split skin had oozed into one eye, plastering it shut. Fatigue lines creased her face. Exhaustion dulled her open eye.
No need to feel guilty. He’d done what his training dictated: overwhelming force, maximum speed. He pushed the sofa closer to the fire, got more ibuprofen and another cup of water, and sat by her.
She opened her mouth, extended her tongue.
He placed two tablets on its tip and held the cup to her dry, cracked lips while she swallowed noisily. “More?” She
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