Beauty in the Broken

I grapple with the information. It’s difficult to speak past the knot in my throat. “How many months?”

“Eight,” she says, and then the dam wall breaks. Sobs wrack her shoulders. “He was eight months old.”

“Jesus.” Wrapping my arms tighter around her waist, I pull her to my chest and let her get it out.

There are so many tears, enough for all the years she carried this alone. “I told them the truth at Willowbrook, but they didn’t listen.”

That’s why she didn’t run away when Dalton brought her home from that fucked up institution. He held her hostage with a murder and her baby’s remains. That son of a bitch.

Grabbing her face, I force her to meet my eyes. “Listen to me. You did the right thing to kill that bastard. He raped and tortured you.”

She shakes her head. “I sold my body. I’m a whore.”

“You’re not a whore. He starved you. He cut you up. He killed your child. He deserved a lot worse than his fate. We’ll find the remains of your baby. I promise you. I swear to God, Dalton will pay for what he did to you. He’ll pay with his life.” I kiss her forehead. “I’ll find you what you want if it’s the last thing I do. You can count on me.”

My wife’s sudden attachment to me is part separation anxiety due to her trauma, and part a cunning way of preventing me from committing another murder. I’ve given her time. It can’t wait, any longer.

After feeding Lina and putting her to bed, I instruct Brink to stand on duty by the bedroom door while I put five guards at the front door. I wait until my wife is in a deep sleep before I dress and holster my gun. Two cars with armed guards wait in front of the house on my instruction.

Word of my friendship with Zane got out. A television crew and several journalists are camping outside the property. I’m not worried. I don’t own the police force, but I have enough connections who do. Paparazzi follow on motorbikes as our cars clear the gates, but my driver is skilled. We lose them in the busy hub of Centurion, cutting across to the R21 that will take us to Johannesburg.

The man I’ve put on watch in Brixton calls to say Dalton’s flat is quiet. No movement. No lights. It won’t do him any good to hide under the bed. He’s out of resources. He’s got nowhere to go, except hell.

“Coast is clear,” one of the guards say when we park a block away from the flat.

“Has anyone been inside?” I ask as we make our way down the deserted sidewalk.

“No, sir, as you requested.”

“Good.” Dalton is mine.

We’re quiet on the steps, not because I’m afraid of warning Dalton of our arrival, but for the sake of the neighbors. I know exactly where I’ll finish Dalton off. I’ll drag him by his hair to the train tracks. There’s only one train that passes these days. It’s a long time until 5am. Long enough to find a place on his body for each of my bullets before I tie him to those tracks.

Drew, my guard, takes up a position on the landing and nods. It doesn’t take much effort to force the door. The first thing that hits me is the smell. The place stinks of rot and decay. Drew covers his nose and reaches for the light switch. I already know the flat is empty before the overhead bulb flickers on. From the looks of it, Dalton ran in a hurry. Clothes are strewn over the unmade bed and floor. A half-eaten plate of ham and mashed peas, the meat green and the peas black, are covered in flies. A thick crust of fungus grows on a glass of milk. Maggots crawl from the overflowing trashcan.

“Fucker,” Drew says, shaking off and stamping on a maggot that climbed up his shoe.

Dalton didn’t leave today or yesterday. Judging by the decomposing food, at least two weeks ago. He must’ve been scheming with Zane for longer than I’d thought.

Assessing for themselves that there’s no threat, the men stand back, as far away from the stench as possible, while they wait for my orders.

“Clear out.”

“The coward ran,” Drew says.

I holster my gun. “I’ll find him.”

On the way back to the car, I call Maze and put word out that I’m looking for Dalton.

All the way home, I contemplate how to break the news to Lina. How do I tell her I don’t have what I promised because her no-good excuse of a stepfather escaped?

To my agitation, she’s not in bed when I arrive, but drilling Brink in her sleepwear. The only thing that prevents me from killing him is that she’s pulled a robe over her revealing nightdress. When she sees me, she flies down the stairs and into my arms. The action takes me so much by surprise I almost bring us both to the floor.