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Chapter 11
“Can I watch?”
Silas looked at Wentworth, who until then had been silent for the last two and a half hours as they drove back to Montana. The man had been sullen since Silas had forced him from the homestead. He’d left Wentworth shackled in the truck while he dropped Mabel off at a nearby farm and called <owner name> to let him know. When he’d gotten back, Wentworth had succeeded in getting himself stuck half-in and half-out of the passenger-side window, having figured out how to roll it down with his bound hands. He’d been too tired and sore to put up a fight after that, and he’d been alternately dosing and staring out the window ever since.
“Watch what?” They were nearing the cabin where Silas preferred to work, and he pulled off the main road onto a dirt one, going slow over a cattle guard through the fence.
“When you eat my flesh,” Wentworth said. “I want to watch.” There is no real emotion in his request, and Silas wasn’t really sure how to answer. He had been planning to force Wentworth to watch, as he’d forced his own victims to, but if it would give the man pleasure, then Silas wasn’t sure that was how he should proceed.
Silas chose his words carefully. “I’ll think about it.”
He turned off the road into a group of large boulders, and then took a sudden turn to the right, and then left, into a horseshoe-shaped space that almost looked like it had been dug out of a butte. Near the back and to one side sat a run-down shack that Silas had built far too long ago to remember. He’d let it rot outside on purpose, wanting it to look abandoned, and also like it would fall on anyone who dared step across the threshold. Inside, it was supported by a few sturdy beams that he kept covered in old bark and dead moss, to keep the ruse up as much as possible should anyone stumble on the place when he wasn’t using it. It was unlikely, as they were on Dawson land, but one could never be too careful.
Pulling around back, he parked under a rotted-looking lean-to with its own door access into the cabin. He got out, went around to open the passenger door and leaned in to cut the ties he’d used to bind Wentworth’s feet in the truck.
“Standing’s gonna be a bitch,” Silas warned as he pulled Wentworth out of the truck. The man stumbled, but to his credit, didn’t say anything. Just went with Silas into the building, and didn’t fight when Silas cut the bindings on his wrists and then locked him into shackles bolted into one wall of the cabin.
Most of his supplies were already there, but Silas still made a couple trips to the truck to get the last things he needed. When he was done, he lit a match and threw it on the firewood already laid out in the fireplace, watching to make sure flames started licking at the logs before he turned away.
To the left of the fireplace, the short-end of an L-shaped counter ran to the corner. The long end ran along the west wall and served as a kitchenette, with cupboards below and on the wall above, and a small sink inset in the center. A rickety wood table stood like an island near the counters, with one equally rickety-looking chair at each end.
He’d already laid out the items he needed to start on the counter by the sink. A cast iron skillet, spatula, metal tray, metal plate, metal cup, metal fork and knife, and a larger hunting knife. Picking up the cast iron skillet and the hunting knife, he took them to the fireplace. There was a cooking rack suspended above the fire, and he set the skillet there to heat up. Then he took the knife and laid it on the hearth with the blade resting in the flames.
Turning to Wentworth, he gave the man a brief nod.
“I will honor your request. Not because you asked, but because the retribution must be complete, and you forced your victims to watch as you mutilated them and consumed their flesh. Therefore you must watch as I do the same to you.”
He turned back to the fire, and retrieved the knife, holding his hand near the blade to test the heat. Satisfied, he crossed the room to stand in front of Wentworth, his pulse picking up and excitement building, though he tried to tamp it down. Giving his prey no time to react, he shoved his free hand into Wentworth’s open mouth, grabbed his tongue, pulled it taut and sliced as much of it off as he could reach in one motion.
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