Valentine Shepherd: Retribution Part 16

As she looked at him, he took a step back. Panic gripped his face. In a blink he sprinted away from her, fleeing blindly into the busy street-right in front of a bus. It slammed into him and carried his body on its grill until it screeched to a halt amid horrified screams. Her jaw hanging open, Val stared stupidly at the twisted form of the mystery man as chaos reigned around her-a b.l.o.o.d.y chaos she'd created. She forced herself to look away, and her eyes wandered to Sten. As his eyes locked with hers, a wicked smile spread across his lips. He flashed her a subtle thumbs-up, then disappeared in the crowd.

Chapter Twenty.

It took Max a moment to realize the wetness he felt on his cheek was Toby licking his face. He turned his head and saw the dog on his bed, sitting next to him. Toby wasn't supposed to be in there. He didn't remember letting the dog in, but he didn't remember much of anything besides throwing on one of his awful charity tuxedos, downing a generous handful of OxyContin pills, sitting at the edge of his bed, and staring at the walls for G.o.d knows how long. Max tried to push Toby away, but his arms felt weak and his hand slipped off the dog's head in a clumsy caress. Toby wagged his tail.

Abby walked out of the bathroom clad in a sapphire silk gown, gorgeous as usual. She smiled at him, her warmth for her fiance recently renewed. After returning from the Mountain Lodge, he'd made love to her like he swore he would, but-G.o.d, he'd had to force himself to. He'd performed, feeling nothing for her, and he hated himself for it.

"Are you sure you're feeling all right for this?" Abby asked as she fiddled with an earring. "You don't have to go."

Of course he had to go. Abby's father was throwing this particular charity ball. Patrick disliked Max, thought he was a lazy playboy. Wasn't completely convinced Max didn't kill his father. Smart man. If Max didn't go tonight, he'd never hear the end of it. Abby wouldn't say anything to Max-not directly, she never did-but she'd hint at her disappointment, make sad faces his way, mention how she wished he'd get along better with her father. Her family's approval was important to her. For that reason, she shouldn't have dated Max to begin with, but he must have been too delectable an opportunity to pa.s.s up-wealthy, mysterious, good in bed, decent-looking, and all that other stuff women liked beyond reason. He guessed she thought she could make her family accept him, "reform the bad boy" or some s.h.i.+t.

As if one day, maybe after Max saved Abby from a dastardly kidnapping plot or a humiliating social faux pas, Patrick would put his hand on Max's shoulder and say with a proud grin, "Son, I was wrong about you. All this time I thought you murdered your father so you could burn through your inheritance with impunity, but now I see you're worthy of my daughter. I'm glad to have you in the family-"

"Max?"

He blinked, his eyes adjusting from the wall to Abby. "What?"

"I said are you sure you want to go tonight?"

"Yes. I'm fine. Just took too much migraine medication." He tapped his temple. "Medicine head. It'll go away. You look good, V-very good."

Jesus, he almost called her Val. Exactly the person he didn't want to think about. Nausea roiled in his stomach again as images of her naked, unconscious body being violated flashed through his mind. And she didn't trust Max enough to tell him. She preferred to manipulate him into helping her than give him the truth of what her crusade against Lucien was actually about. After everything they'd shared, he thought some part of her must still care for him, but he'd thought wrong.

He must really mean nothing to her.

And Lucien...that disgusting, bottom-dwelling, f.u.c.king piece of s.h.i.+t rat b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Max would kill Christophe if he ever saw him again. First, he'd cut off Lucien's b.a.l.l.s, hands, and tongue, in that order, so the Frenchman could experience a fraction of the pain he'd caused Val and other women unlucky enough to cross his path. Then he'd burn Lucien alive- "Max."

"What?"

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Huh?"

She frowned. "Are you sure you're all right?"

He looked down and saw his hands balled into tight fists. Forcing them to unclench, he said, "Yeah. Some...fresh air will clear my head, I think." He stood slowly, careful not to stumble in front of her.

Abby's furrowed brow betrayed her skepticism, but in the end, pleasing Daddy was more important. "Let's go then."

He swallowed a desperate sigh, then patted Toby's head. "Be good."

She drove on account of his medicine head.

Then he was standing in a dark room with translucent white porcelain on the walls. The Seattle Art Museum, Max remembered. Raising money to restore a public section of the waterfront damaged in a storm last year. Something like that.

"And he had such beautiful eyes," a middle-aged woman with chandeliers for earrings was saying to him. "Like he could see right into your soul." After a moment, he recognized her-Rhonda Gallagher. Widow of Nigel Gallagher, bank chairman. "Well, you would know a little something about beautiful eyes." She winked at him.

Why would Max know that? Was she talking about him?

"I loved that horse. I really wish he could've sired more foals before we had to put him down." Rhonda sighed and sipped from her champagne flute. "Oh well. They can't live forever, I suppose. Did your family own horses?"

"No." Max turned away before she could launch into another inane topic. He spotted Abby in the center of the room, talking to a tall, stocky man with a close-cropped donut of hair-her father. At least Ginger wasn't around. He'd jetted off to somewhere in East Asia, probably to partake of a little s.e.x tourism. Yuck. Max grabbed a gla.s.s of wine off a tray as a waiter walked by. If he kept the gla.s.s to his lips, maybe he wouldn't be expected to talk.

"There you are," Abby said, taking Max's arm as he walked up and stood beside her. She smiled at him, radiating charisma for them both. "I was just telling Daddy about my plan to go back to school. Events at places like this make me remember why I got a degree in art history to begin with. So beautiful."

"Uh-huh." Max sipped his wine.

"I'm sure you'll be successful at whatever you do, cupcake," Patrick said. "Maxwell, what have you diversified into lately?"

"I don't diversify," he muttered.

"So you think your father's money will last forever?"

"Dad," Abby said, feigning embarra.s.sment for Max but really hoping he'd throw her father a bone and pretend to care about the latest financial bulls.h.i.+t.

This was the part where Patrick offered Max a job-the better to exert control over his future son-in-law. "If you're going to come to me hat-in-hand one day when your inheritance runs dry, you might as well earn my money. My Northern Asia line still has a management position open and..."

Patrick's voice became a droning noise. Max stared at the porcelain to the right of Patrick's head, perfect discs of white suspended in black cases. These particular sets were j.a.panese, created during the Second World War. Written and baked into their glossy surfaces were names of n.o.ble family members who'd died in the conflict, and prayers for their souls- A boisterous laugh caught his attention. A laugh he recognized. He heard a snippet of conversation. "Huge! You would not believe it," someone said. A Frenchman.

"If you're just sitting on your shares, you should-Ah!" Patrick jerked backward. Max realized he'd turned toward the conversation and let his winegla.s.s tip sideways at the same time, spilling Merlot on Patrick's expensive shoes. "What the h.e.l.l are you-"

Letting the winegla.s.s fall, Max walked toward the voice, a smooth timbre with a slight French accent. A confident voice, a charming voice. A voice full of lies. With each step he took, his anger grew, bubbling up through the fog of opiates until all the white porcelain around him turned red. Max pushed through a crowd of bodies until he saw him.

"I would have thought he was lying, but I saw it with my own eyes," Lucien said to a captivated audience of almost a dozen people. "A baby Loch Ness monster, he called it, right on his wall." His gaze wandered to Max and stayed there. "Ah, Max! Good to see you. You're well traveled. You must have some interesting stories to tell of supposed magical beings, yes?"

Max slugged Lucien in the face. Lucien dropped to the ground as the crowd gasped. Max sprung on top of him and channeled every ounce of energy he had to pound into oblivion the man who'd raped the woman he loved. Lucien threw up his arms but his weak defense was no match for Max's fury. His fists found Lucien's head, chest, shoulders, arms. Every strike landed with the force of murderous rage.

"Max, stop!" Abby's voice floated to him over a cacophony of screaming and yelling. "Stop!"

He ignored her. Monsters deserved to die. If Max had to kill Lucien with his bare hands, so be it.

Then he was being dragged away. Lucien's pulpy face receded, blood pouring down his chin from a smashed nose and cut above the eye. No! He was so close, so close to exacting justice for Val. Max struggled to free himself, thras.h.i.+ng his arms and legs, gnas.h.i.+ng his teeth, growling like an animal.

Rough hands flipped Max over and shoved his face into the floor. Security guards. They pried his arms behind his back. Handcuffs snapped around his wrists. Then they hauled him to his feet. Everyone was yelling at him, gawking at him, crying at him. Furious, shocked faces blurred past as the security guards dragged him away, his legs unsteady, lungs on fire, head spinning, unable to recall what he was even doing there before he saw the monster.

Max flinched when the camera's flash went off. He blinked back green spots.

"Turn to your right," a police officer ordered. "Hold the sign at shoulder level."

Max turned to his right and pressed the stenciled sign with his name on it against his shoulder.

"Hold it higher."

Max inched it up.

"Lower."

He lowered it.

"Too low."

Just take the f.u.c.king mugshot! he almost said, but gritted his teeth and did as he was told. He didn't have the energy to fight anymore. He wanted it to be over, no matter what they did to him. After a round of photographs, they took his fingerprints. Max stared dully at the walls, not arguing, not reacting, not caring. A ragdoll in the process. Drunk and disorderly, one policeman said. That rich guy got away with killing his father, another whispered. They stared at him, then looked away when he noticed. They asked him if he wanted to make a statement; he said nothing. They threw him in a cell.

Max counted the ceiling tiles until he drifted into a fitful sleep. Snakes slithered through his dreams, eating little birds by swallowing them whole. Then they crawled into his mouth and took the place of his intestines, until his gut writhed with snakes. The clang of his cell door woke him.

"Come on," a policeman said as he held the door open. "Your lady made bail."

Max staggered to his feet. He noticed for the first time his swollen knuckles, blood splotches on his dress s.h.i.+rt, bow tie hanging crooked off his collar, scuffed shoes. The fog over his brain was lifting, leaving behind a growing nausea in his stomach and an emptiness in his chest. He glanced at the ancient clock bolted to the wall; half past 1 a.m. Max followed the policeman through the station and felt the stares of curious onlookers more acutely than the night before. The cop led him somewhere other than the entrance; a back door of some kind. Abby waited there, still in her silk gown though her hair looked messed and makeup faded. Dark circles lurked under her eyes. She regarded Max with tight lips.

"We have to leave this way," she said, her voice hoa.r.s.e. "There's media out front."

He walked past her, out the door, and to her car. She drove while he sat in the pa.s.senger seat and stared out the side window.

"Why did you do that?" Abby asked when they were halfway home.

Max continued to stare out the window.

"Max, why?"

He couldn't explain.

"Please tell me."

If he told her, it was over. Officially over.

By the time they reached his condo, Max's palms were sweaty and his stomach was gripped by nausea. His head was beginning to split open. He needed more pills. Rus.h.i.+ng inside, he blew past Toby and ran up the stairs to the master bathroom. Max threw open the medicine cabinet's door, knocked a bunch of other bottles to the ground, and dug out his OxyContin. He pawed at the cap. The G.o.dd.a.m.n thing was stuck, and his sweaty hands weren't helping. He slammed the bottle against the sink basin, trying to loosen up the cap, harder each time, until blood from his bashed fingers stained the porcelain.

"G.o.ddammit, talk to me!" Abby yelled from the bathroom's doorway.

He spiked the bottle in the sink. "What do you want me to say, Abby? You want me to confess my deep, dark secrets to you? I already f.u.c.king did that!"

She gasped at his sudden outburst, then lifted her chin, ready for a fight. "Tell me why you attacked Lucien."

"You really wanna know? Fine. I'll tell you f.u.c.king everything. Lucien runs the Blue Serpent cult and he rapes people. Sometimes he tortures and murders them, too. And Ginger helps him. Your brother rapes, tortures, and murders people. Because all those rich f.u.c.ks at the charity events we keep attending think it's fun. It's their idea of a good time when they're not pretending to give a s.h.i.+t about poor people or the environment. Happy now? Are you happy you know?"

Abby gaped at him, her big blue eyes made wider with disbelief, and disgust. "That's what you've been investigating with Valentine Shepherd?"

"Yes, that's what we've been investigating." He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the OxyContin bottle again. The cap finally gave and twisted off.

She eyed the pills he dumped in his hand. "What is that, really?"

"OxyContin," he said without looking at her. He threw pills in his mouth-he didn't know how many-and leaned his head under the faucet. Water poured straight into his mouth and sprayed his s.h.i.+rt.

Her eyes filled with tears. "I...I think you might be having a break from reality."

He choked out a mirthless laugh and ripped off his bow tie. "Yeah, sure."

"You need help. Anyone who endured what your father did to you would need-"

"I am not a f.u.c.king invalid! This has nothing to do with him! Nothing!"

"It has everything-"

"My father is dead. Lucien is still alive, and your brother's working with him." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Did you know this whole time?"

"Is that what Val told you?"

"No, I saw it for myself. With her...I saw her..." Max closed his eyes and leaned against the sink as a wave of nausea pa.s.sed through him. The pills weren't working fast enough. He saw Val on Lucien's computer again, felt her pain...When Max opened his eyes, tears flowed down Abby's face.

"Do you love her?"

All at once the anger left him, replaced by cold despair. Whatever he felt for Abby, it wasn't enough. It never would be. He loved Val-only Val, and no one else. He'd love her until the day he died. And she didn't love him.

Though he didn't speak, the look he gave Abby must have told her everything. Her face crumpled. "Did you ever love me?"

The words stuck in his throat. He forced them out like one might induce vomiting after swallowing poison. "I tried." It was the meanest thing he'd ever said. But she wanted the truth, and he couldn't live a lie anymore.

A sob ripped from her throat. She fled from the bathroom and ran down the stairs. He heard the front door open and slam closed, then all was quiet.

Max's legs gave way and he sat in a heap on the edge of the bathtub. He let his head fall into his hands. What had he done? His cruelty toward poor Abby made him sick. He should've let her go before things got this far, but instead he'd lied to himself, pretended he could be a normal person and live a normal life. Tricked himself into thinking he could love anyone but Val. Not only had he murdered his own father and let everyone think it'd been a tragic accident, but he'd fallen desperately and completely in love with a woman who wouldn't have him. Then he'd ruined someone else's life because he couldn't face the truth. If he'd succeeded in ending it all years ago, the world would've been spared the wreckage of his continued existence.

Max eyed the pill bottle still in his hand, more than half full. He swallowed all the rest of its contents, then threw the empty container across the bathroom.

It never worked. He'd tried many times, and it never f.u.c.king worked. Those attempts were before the red raven, though. She'd seen him die, and then saved him. But she wasn't around now. Maybe she'd changed something in the order of the universe, and he could finally leave this hopeless world.

Max picked up a crystal seash.e.l.l at the head of the tub, part of a set he'd bought before Abby moved in. He hadn't picked it out; an interior decorator did. Make it look like a human being lives here, he'd told her. He threw the sh.e.l.l across the room. It shattered against the wall. Toby whined from the bedroom, cowering out of sight. Max picked up another sh.e.l.l and threw it, then another, and another, until the bathroom tiles were littered with broken crystal.

Then he tore through his condo, smas.h.i.+ng and tearing apart anything he'd bought specifically for the purpose of looking normal, which was almost everything. Commissioned portraits, tchotchkes from around the world, hand-crafted furniture, finely etched gla.s.sware. Useless junk, all of it. After an orgy of destruction, he stumbled back into the bathroom. He took a framed picture of a seascape off the wall and spiked it into the bathtub. Gla.s.s erupted, and he felt a sting on his palms. He thought he might've cut himself, but his eyes wouldn't focus on his hands when he looked for blood, and the bathroom spun, and cool floor tile touched his face. The last thing he sensed was the stupid dog barking furiously.

Chapter Twenty-one.

Stacey's voice reached Val through a haze of sleep. "Get up!" She kicked the bed.

Val's eyes cracked open. The sun burned. She blinked and wiped away crust from the corners of her eyelids until the world focused. After a moment she realized she wasn't in her bed but on the living room couch, where she'd pa.s.sed out the night before after drinking a few beers...More than a few.