There is no mercy in my heart.
Not for these men.
They knew what it was they were doing. Oh, I’m not terribly upset with the attack on my person. That, at this point in my life, is merely par for the course.
It’s the death of the child.
The death of Doctor Wallace Lewis’ grandchild, to be precise.
He had offered the boy up as a sacrifice.
This morning, having enjoyed a breakfast and a cup of coffee at the Cross Diner, I heard one of the waitresses remark that her son’s playmate, Joshua Lewis, had been sent to live with relations in Georgia. I found this to be curious. I know, for a fact, that Dr. Lewis and the boy were the last of the line. Lewis’ son and daughter-in-law had died in an auto crash during the war, and there were no other family members to speak of.
None that Dr. Lewis would have sent the boy to.
I entered Lewis’ house shortly after noon and found the man sitting in a chair beside a chest of drawers with a photo of his grandson atop it.
If that was meant to move me to pity, it failed.
When Lewis saw the knife in my hand, he sneered and said, “I gave the boy up for your death. You could have had the common courtesy to die.”
The southern drawl he spoke with was abrasive and reminded me of the men I had killed during the War of the Rebellion.
“I could of,” I told him, stepping forward.
He tried to draw a small revolver, but I sprang forward and knocked it aside. As he attempted to bring the weapon to bear, I drove my weapon down, the blade of the Bowie knife castrating him.
His squeal of pain echoed off the high ceiling, and the revolver clattered to the floor. The man’s eyes were wide as he clawed at my hand, trying to get me to pull the blade out.
I twisted it instead.
Leaving him pinned to the chair, I tore open his shirt and began to break his ribs one by one.
He lived for a long and terrible time.