III. EMMETT
The day was hot, and showed no signs of cooling as the sun began its slow descent. The black, angry storm clouds moving in from the sea definitely didn't help matters, the atmospheric changes jacking the humidity up to absurd levels. A cold sports drink on the hood of my truck was sweating its heart out, but I was pretty sure I could give it a run for its money.
Swiping an arm across my forehead, the perspiration immediately reconvened as if to make fun of me for even trying to get rid of it. Jesus, it was sweltering, but that was August for you. I shifted my cell to my right ear, the left feeling distinctly like it was submerged in a swimming pool. On the other end of the line my boss, Marcus, was still rattling off about billboard advertising and job postings. Being a one-man crew was rough, for sure, but so was trying to teach Joe Blow fresh from college what the real world was like.
My cell vibrated, signaling a text. "Hey, hold up a sec, boss man, marching orders coming in."
I pulled the phone away from my screen, swiping up to open it and read the text. It was from one of our usual customers, a man named Peter who lived in Southampton from May to September. The guy was completely loaded, but he and his wife Charlotte were actually pretty nice people. Last time their pool filter busted, he bought me a case of beer and a pizza for showing up the same day to fix it, and they always went out of their way to buy me a birthday present.
I returned the phone to my ear to hear Marcus still talking. It's like the man had selective hearing. Jesus.
"Marcus... Marcus. MARCUS!" Finally, he shut his trap so I could talk. "Peter just texted, their AC went out so I have to head up to the peninsula. My service is shit out there, so I'll call you when I'm back in Brooklyn."
Without waiting for an answer, I hung up on him, slumping onto the hood of my truck. Marcus was good people, honestly, but he was so hyper-focused on wanting more that sometimes he missed what was already a thriving business. We were more or less the exclusive maintenance company for most of the well-to-do on Long Island and each of the Hamptons' neighborhoods, not to mention most of the surrounding area. We were a little two-man fix-it-all operation that had started in Marcus's garage attic, and somehow just the two of us had grown the business into a powerhouse. Eventually Marcus transitioned to do all of the office work, leaving me to tend to the hands-on labor, but our system worked. However, the dude still wanted more - more crews, more clients. I knew he didn't care about the cash so much as he took pride in his work, which made his drive tolerable, even when I was the one doing the bitch work.
Most of the island was within reasonable driving distance since we had an office in Brooklyn, but Peter's place was a hike, at least two hours - I wouldn't get there until after dark. Quickly as I could, I tapped out a text to let Peter to let him know my general ETA, then took a huge swig of the already lukewarm sports drink. I screwed the cap back on, shooting it into the gas station pump trash bin, and cranked the AC in the truck as I headed out of the city up to the island.
The sky darkened considerably the further I went, the clouds swelling as they rolled in, bringing whipping winds with them. I had just turned off County Road 39 onto Tuckahoe Lane when the rain started, so thick and fast my wipers had trouble keeping up. Fucking perfect, having to fix an air conditioner in the rain, but no use crying over spilled milk. Actually, it kind of fit the day I was having, where absolutely everything that could have gone wrong had. Missing tools, delayed parts, flat tire, running out of gas. At least my day couldn't get any worse.
Finally, I turned onto Meadow Lane, the coastal road that led southwest all the way along Shinnecock Bay until the road ended at a county park where the bay opened up to the north Atlantic. Peter lived damn near at the end, but every house along this road was more like a palace than a mansion, complete with tennis courts, private pools, boardwalks right to the beach, and big iron gates.
I was almost to Peter's, the 5th house from the end, when something balled up on the side of the road caught my attention. I slowed, trying to make out what it was as the rain finally eased up, when I slammed on the brakes. It was a person. As I stopped, they stood, and I realized it wasn't just a person, but a woman.
Slamming the truck into park, I was climbing out of the cab when I got a good look at her.
"Holy shit. Are you okay?"
Her clothes were probably supposed to be white, but there was so much blood on them they looked tie-dyed rust-brown and pink in the wash of the headlights. She had a massive shiner on one eye, and a jagged cut that snaked from her temple to her jaw. The longer I stared, the more I realized how fucking bad off she was - a split lip, bloody gums, cuts and scrapes all over her knees and the palms of her hands. I could make out from a limply hanging left arm that it definitely looked broken. Part of her sleeve was ripped at the shoulder; angry red welts were peeking through the torn fabric. Her hair was blonde and matted with blood and dirt. There was also caked mud under her nails. She had giant, beautiful blue eyes that quivered at the sight of me.
Immediately I saw red, fury rising in my chest like an enraged grizzly. It didn't take a genius to realize, with a look like that, that she hadn't just accidentally come to be like this. Someone had done this to her, on purpose, and I wanted to kill them. But first things first.
She had collapsed at the sound of my voice, frenzied sobs shaking her broken body. I moved as slow as I could, not wanting to frighten or startle her, and tried to be mindful of anything else that may be broken as I curled my arms around her frame and hoisted her haggard body into the air. Cradling her to my chest so I didn't jostle her, I started back to the truck, where I tried to deposit her gently on to the passenger seat.
As I made to let go her crying ratcheted up in intensity, coming so hard and fast I was worried she'd literally fall apart. Scooting her over on the bench seat, I jogged around to the driver's side after closing the passenger door and climbed in. Once the door was shut, I pulled her against me again, running a hand over her tangled hair. Rubbing her back seemed like a good idea, but not knowing where else she was hurt, I didn't want to chance hurting her.
Without warning her hands came up to press against my chest, shoving, and I let her go without resistance. Maybe she realized I was another man, and was worried I'd hurt her more. The thought sent a tremor of murderous rage up my spine until she threw open the door and puked violently. I dug around in the glove compartment, and found a moderately clean white cloth I offered to her once she closed the door again.
Her blue eyes widened, darting from my face to my hand with the cloth before she took it gingerly and wiped her mouth. I was trying to swallow the homicidal urges crackling in my stomach when she looked at me again, shrinking into the door slightly. I met her gaze steadily, trying to convey I wouldn't hurt her in that one look.
When I spoke, my voice was shaking with the fury I'd bottled up. "Where is he." It wasn't a question.
A shaking right hand came up, pointing to the drive directly behind us. I nodded, sliding the truck into reverse and craned around to look over my shoulder as I backed up.
Again, her right hand came up, flying to yank on my arm that was attached to the steering wheel, her voice tight and panicked and sounding like she'd swallowed broken glass. "No, you can't, please, stop."
Slowing to a stop as commanded, I peered into her face again, unsure what she was asking me not to do. No way in hell was I taking her back to him - she'd be dead by morning. Or maybe she realized I'd planned to commit a felony, and was worried I'd get in trouble. Somehow, the idea was really fucking funny.
A glint from her left hand was emanating from a massive diamond nestled against her ring finger even in the dark of my cab, and the idea the man who'd done this to her was married to her had me clenching my hands against the steering wheel for a moment. I inhaled roughly, blowing it out in a huff, eyes closed.
"What's your name?" It was about the only thing I could think to ask at the moment.
She swallowed, slowly withdrawing her hands, and shook her head.
"The only person that's going to get hurt is him. You look about a step away from fucking death, and I'll be damned if he's going to get away with hurting a woman. That isn't in my DNA."
Her eyes flickered around, from me to the driveway to her fractured arm and back again, before she finally met my eyes again. She swallowed once more before she finally answered. "Rosalie King. Are you going to…"
I held up a hand to silence her, trying to keep it close to my body and as non-threatening as possible. I put the truck back in drive and continued on to Peter's. When we got to the gate, I punched in his code, then pulled up by the front door. Climbing out of the cab, I stared at her through the open door for a moment.
"If Peter comes out, tell him Emmett went around to look at their outside unit. If you want to go inside, you can - Peter is a good person, and his wife Charlotte is a doctor. Let them help you, please. I'll be right back."
Gently I closed the door, then started through the trees and brush separating me and Mr. King. As the house came into a view, I tried to think through the best plan of attack. I could always just beat the shit out of him and that would definitely be satisfying, to give to him a fraction of what he'd given to Rosalie.
The thought of her, possibly panicking for my safety, had me reconsidering. A bloody beatdown was great in theory, but it left evidence. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out expecting to see Peter or Marcus had texted, but it was my old buddy, Garrett.
And then the idea hit me. I hadn't always been a squeaky-clean working man. I grew up dirt ass poor, and often had to jack cars and sell them to Garrett for a clean VIN to make enough for a meal. It was the whole reason I'd gone into business with Marcus. Yeah, I'd wanted a fresh start, but I was also pretty fucking gifted when it came to electronics and circuits. Without me, Marcus would still be fixing busted toilets and installing lightbulbs.
Skirting around the outside of the perimeter fence, it occurred to me that he had surveillance cameras, but a quick look around showed where the camera aimed at a side door had been knocked around by the debris kicked up from the storm and was pointing directly skyward. Jackpot.
As I approached the door, the blood was so thick and plentiful that even the storm hadn't been able to wash it all away. A streak ran across the crisp white paint, giving me an idea of Rosalie's frenzied escape. Sighing, I cracked my neck and shook out my shoulders, then knocked on the door. No one answered.
I tried the handle, and found it opened silently - had he disabled the system? No time to wonder now. I followed the still-wet copper trail where it led through a mud room, through the kitchen, to where it originated.
The living room looked like a crime scene. Furniture was upended, tossed around with such violence that much of it was broken. A sea of glass stretched from the grand elegant sofa, streaked with more dried blood, up to a massive, stately fireplace. The tools and holder were on its side, the shovel a good 10 feet away from the rest of the set.
But still no Royce, and this place could be a fucking maze. Probably best to get him to come to me - I picked up the poker, and tossed it in my hand to wield it like a baseball bat. Giving a wide swing, I sent it crashing into a still-standing china cabinet. The resulting cacophony of broken glass brought with it thumping footsteps coming from somewhere to my right. I spun the poker around, ready to strike, when Mr. King himself appeared from a hallway that led off the living room.
He started bellowing immediately, demanding I leave, when I swung the poker again to strike him across the front of his knees. He collapsed, screaming. Murderous red crept up into my vision as I strode over to him, stepping through broken glass and the phantom of Rosalie's broken body. My left hand snagged him up by the pressed collar, hoisting him into the air as I drove him back into the wall.
Easily twice his size on muscle mass alone, it felt like tossing around a ragdoll. His head snapped back on impact, cracking against the drywall and leaving a sizeable hole. Curling my arm, I brought him face to face with me, my breath coming hot and quick.
"So, you like to hit women, huh? I'm going to love watching you die, you piece of shit."
Cocking back my right arm, I made to drive my fist into his temple before I pulled up at the last second. I growled, pissed I couldn't just beat the life out of his miserable fucking body. I dropped him to the ground, and yanked the shirt off his back, using it to tie his arms up. Next, I tried to remove his pants, struggling as he tried to kick and fight me off. Finally getting them off, I ripped one pant leg off and stuffed it in his mouth to mute his incessant shrieking before using the remaining fabric to bind his feet together.
When Mr. King was good and immobile, I strode to inspect the stove and was grimly pleased to find it was fueled by propane. I turned to look back at Rosalie's sad excuse for a husband, shuddering with rage in his boxers on a shimmering mass of broken glass. A smirk crept onto my face as I stared at the fireplace, and the pile of wood next to it. Only rich people would think about an aesthetic fire in the fucking summer.
"You look cold. How about we warm you up."
Thirty-some minutes later I was breaking back through the foliage at Peter's. I noticed Rosalie was not in the cab of the truck, and a light was on in a spare bathroom upstairs.
It's probably best that I didn't totally lie to Peter, so I strode around the side of their house to inspect the outside air conditioning unit. I found nothing outwardly wrong with it, and knew I'd probably need to get a fluke on the main panel to see if there was a voltage problem. Packing up my flashlight and tools, I went around to the front door. I brushed myself off before I entered, then kicked off my work boots at the front door.
The sound of sniffling echoed from upstairs, and my actual job was forgotten. I knew Peter and Charlotte would take care of her, but panic expanded in my chest for this woman I didn't know, terrified that she was terrified. I jogged up the stairs, heading straight to the spare bathroom. When I opened the door I found Rosalie on the side of the tub with Charlotte de facto splinting her shattered arm, and a clean line of stitches weaving down the side of her face where the laceration had been.
Rosalie was sniffling again, thanking Charlotte, when an explosion temporarily rattled the windows, accompanied by a mushroom cloud of surging fire.
Charlotte cursed, something I'd never heard her do before, as she ran to the window to gaze at the tendrils of flame now curling up into the air.
But I could only stare at Rosalie, her eyes pinned on me and seemingly ignoring the sound of cataclysm happening outside. I saw the question poised on her lips, the hope flaring in her eyes making my heart clench for her. I nodded silently, and she crumpled in on herself as a fresh round of sobs rattled her battered body.
I was aware that Charlotte was speaking to me, wondering what had happened, and Peter appearing in the doorway, already on the phone with 911, but it was all background noise as I wrapped Rosalie in my arms and just held her, my hand coming up to rest on the back of her head gently.
She whispered between the shuddering gasps, so softly I was certain it was only for me.
"Thank you. You saved me. Thank you."