Page 36 of Silas

I reach the lobby and find the little area where they sell necessities, and buy a brush. Take my time going back up—take the stairs, to buy time.

To get the vision of her naked body out of my head.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It won’t leave.

It’s seared onto my brain, burned into my consciousness.

First, the male response—her body. Fuck. Lithe. Lean. Slender and elegant. Sleek and slim in the thighs and waist and shoulders, with surprisingly generous curves at her hips and breasts. She’s underfed, though. Almost frail—malnourished. Bruised, scarred. And yet, still stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful.

And then….those scars. Thick keloid stripes on her shoulders, back, buttocks, and upper thighs. I’m not sure what she was whipped with, but it permanently marked her. How could you do that to another human, let alone your own fucking daughter? How could you hate someone, anyone, that much? How could you hate your own daughter that much?

But then…how could my father do to me and my brothers and my mother the evil, hateful, awful things he did?

My father was a vicious, heartless, alcoholic bastard. He was beaten by his father, and my grandfather I assume was beaten as well. One of those generational curses. My father was a drunk—he never hit us when he was sober, but he was rarely sober at home—he saved that for work.

The scars on Naomi’s body, never mind the ones on her soul, were put there because of hate.

I want to boil that man alive. It wouldn’t be me killing him—it would be the boiling water. I almost smile at that—I know better. I can almost hear Inez’s voice:You can’t get by on a technicality, Silas.

I pause outside our room.

I don’t know what to do. With her. With myself. Where do I go? Where do I take her? I can no more leave her somewhere alone and terrified of her own shadow and utterly defenseless than I could betray my brothers.

It’s just not in me.

There’s only one thing I can do.

I dial a number and put the phone to my ear, pacing down the hallway. It rings twice. “Silas.” Inez’s voice is smooth and cold, as always. “How is Boston?”

“I don’t know. I’m not there anymore.”

She’s not surprised, judging by her tone. “I assumed as much. Where are you?”

“I don’t know. West Virginia, maybe?”

A silence. “How long will you require?”

“Not sure.”

“What’s her name?”

This gets a laugh out of me. “How do you know there’s a her?”

She snorts. “Come now, Silas, let’s not insult each other’s intelligence.”

“Naomi Ibsen.” I know all Inez needs is the name.

I hear typing, and endure the silence; after a while, Inez tells me what she’s found. “Daughter of Buddy and Deanna Ibsen; Deanna is deceased…as of April 2009.” Another pause; she’s reading. “Buddy Ibsen. Quite a character, it seems. Served in Desert Storm, several TODs. Decorated. Seems like he turned anti-government somewhere along the line. Runs a militia out of West Virginia, although militia seems like an inaccurate term—it’s more of a paramilitary contracting firm, like a miniature, less polished version of Blackwater. They’re not always on the right side of things—situationsorthe law. Ibsen—Buddy, I mean—is wanted in several states for a variety of violent crimes and possession of illegal firearms. Looks like there are several cases open tying him to suspicious deaths, mostly connected to off-book punitive actions on behalf of corporations wishing to make someone disappear or shut up. He gets hired to disappear people, it seems like.” Another pause. “He’s a bad character, Silas.”

“Well, I rescued his daughter from him. And from some character named Jerry, never heard a last name. Sounds like he might be an arms dealer or something. Her husband, not that she had a choice in the matter.”

Typing, and then a breathed curse. “Nowthere’sa real motherfucker. Gerald Kushner. Served with Buddy in the Army. Yeah, he’s wanted not just domestically by the ATF for a laundry list of shit, but by Interpol.” A sigh. “And when you say yourescuedher…”

“She was barefoot on the side of the road, beat to shit, in the middle of the night and the middle of fuckin’ nowhere, running away. Or trying to. So I picked her up. Ran into her dad, our ol’ pal Buddy. I may have shot out his tire.”

A long, irritated sigh. “You threw a rock at a hornet’s nest, Silas.”