Pump Fake by Michael Beck

Author:Michael Beck [Beck, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thrillers, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Football, Suspense, revenge
ISBN: 9781601741714
Publisher: Uncial Press
Published: 2013-11-15T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 46

He wearily smoothed down the last of the wet cement and awkwardly climbed to his feet. His back creaked and it was a good minute before he could straighten. He'd thought he was doing a pretty good job but when he saw the depressions, he realized he had been kneeling in the wet cement the whole time. Great, he had left hand prints, too. He would have to re-do this section.

He remembered the first time he had to use this room. It was funny, even though these days his memory was poor, he could remember something that happened fourteen years ago more clearly than something that happened today. He supposed it was easier to remember because the horror and disgust had been so great. The first child was always going to be like that.

He had never planned on killing the child. He knew it was wrong, what he was doing. But he couldn't help himself. The child was so beautiful. He had not intended to kill. Why would you kill someone you love? They had had a beautiful time together and he must have fallen asleep. When he awoke he was covered in blood. Not just a little, but saturated in blood. The whole of the bed was red and he still had the knife in his hand. Then he saw the child next to him and cried out in horror. What had he done? He knew that he was sick and did things which he sometimes couldn't remember, but this? He never thought he was evil but now he knew better. How could an evil so large lurk inside and he never know it?

Sweet Jesus, he had always prayed that he would not end up like his father and God had answered him with a resounding no. He was going to be exactly like his father.

Later, he had frantically buried the child in the basement and locked the door hoping that was the end of it. But it wasn't. He killed again. And again. And again. So many of God's little angels. How many was it now? He couldn't remember. He would have to check the book. He glanced at the ugly, white angel-tattoo on his forearm. He had carved it with a steak knife the same day he had killed the first.

Everything had started to blur, dim, recede in his mind.

The horror was not that he had killed so many. The horror was that he couldn't remember.

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