The Lies we Steal (The Hollow Boys Book 1)

Alistair

“Took you two long enough,” I mumble pushing myself off my car with my boot, tossing my cigarette onto the ground, stomping out the dying ember. 

“Thatcher had to press his suit.” Silas shoves into Thatch’s body with his shoulder, his body covered with an entirely black hoodie. The moonlight reflecting off his hardened face. 

“Versace? To a crime scene? A bit pretentious, even for you.” I eye his outfit, looking like he’s attending some fucking political debate about global warming or health care. 

“Good to see you don’t hate mommy and daddy too much, seems you at least learned your brands from them.” His voice levels, “We know you oppose all things wealth, Alistair but there is no need to be jealous of my incredible style.” He straightens his collar.

I step closer to him in warning, but the sound of a high whining engine disrupts my temporary anger towards my best friend. 

Rook’s steely colored bike swerves into the morgue’s parking lot. The reeving of the bike ends suddenly as he turns the key. Pulling the matte black helmet of his head, and shaking his hair like he’s some kind of boy band member. 

“Glad you could join us, Van Doren.” I remark. 

He walks towards the rest of us, keeping his riding gloves on, the only one of us with a smirk on his face. He raises his book bag up. 

“Got everything, extra in case we decided on…” 

“We are not blowing anything up today, Rook.” Thatcher cuts him off already knowing where he’s thoughts are headed. He holds his hands up in defense. 

“Let’s go find out what the good doctor knows.” I turn on my heel, the gravel crunching beneath my boot as we walk towards the back door of the building. Rook had come by earlier, ran a little errand for his father at the D.A.’s office today. 

Anything to help his dad and to unlock this door so we would have an easy way inside. 

My knuckles sting with anticipation as I pull the door open carefully. Hearing Silas click the lock behind us, just so no one else follows behind. We fall in step as we make our way through the receptionist area, my heart thuds inside my chest. Metallic flavor spreading through my mouth as I clench my jaw. 

What did it say about me and who I was that this situation made me exhilarated? 

I can see the glow of lights, just before I press my hands into the double doors, opening them with a loud thud. The smell inside the medical examiner’s office is horrid. It clings and permeates. A cold body with a sheet pulled up to their chest. 

To the left Doctor Howard Discil jumps at his desk, the chair squeaking underneath his weight. Quickly, he adjusts his glasses, trying to recover from us spooking him. 

“Excuse me,” He clears his throat, trying to sound a bit more stern, “but you boys can’t be here right now.” He readjusts in his seat, eyeing us each warily. 

I look over at the boys, all of us making eye contact for a brief moment, as if this was someone’s last chance to back out before we started really dirtying up our records. When no one says anything, I turn back to Howard. 

“I don’t remember us asking for your permission.”

It’s quick work after that. Silas and Rook retrieve the nylon rope from the bag, securing the doctor to his chair. He struggles, hopelessly, but still struggles. Wiggling in their grasp as they wrap the black rope around his body, bounding him completely. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” He yells, his face turning an ugly shade of red. 

Rook presses his foot into his back, shoving the rolling chair to the middle of the room. Staying behind the desk as he starts to open drawers and sift through papers. 

I reach into my jacket pocket pulling out a pair of golden brass knuckles. The metal is cold in my palm, the heat from my skin warming them up quickly. Stepping towards Howard, I slip my fingers through the loops allowing the curved end to nestle into my palm, squeezing it tightly in my grasp. 

“Rosemary Donahue.” I say still looking at the reflective metal on my hand, my initials etched into the tops of each knuckle. “You did her autopsy report, right?” 

“That’s privileged information. I can’t just tell you something like that.” He argues, struggling against his restraints. 

The muscle in my jaw ticks twice as I tilt my head to the left, cracking my neck. 

My arm strikes forward, sudden and forceful. My hand is protected from the impact with the steel shielding it from the outside, but I can still feel the metal digging into his cheekbone. 

A whoosh of air passes through us, as his head snaps to the left at the impact. A groan in pain falling from his mouth, along with crimson liquid. It splatters onto the floor, onto his shirt. I probably knocked out a tooth. 

The skin where I made contact is split, bleeding from the nasty cut already starting to swell, turning burnt red. 

I place my hands on either side of his chair, bending down so my face is close to his, shaking my head and clicking my tongue. 

“Wrong answer, Howard.” 

Something sharp, like electricity fires through my body as his eyes glint with fear. 

The adrenaline of knowing he’s terrified for his life right now, makes my toes curl inside of my boots. I could live off this. His fear. I could feed on it like a hungry fucking dog. 

“I’m going to ask again,” I say as I stand up to my full height, “Rosemary Donahue. Her autopsy.” 

“Yes! Yes! I did her autopsy! Why does it matter?! It was just an overdose.” He yells frantically. 

I nod, “Good, that’s really good, now tell me, why’d you forget to mention the defensive wounds on her body?” 

Shock registers on his face, like the dots of why we’re here are finally connecting. He knows we know something. The question is, will he be stupid enough to lie to our faces? 

With a short shake of his head, “There wasn’t. It was just an overdose.” 

I was almost glad he lied again. 

Another sharp, murderously hard punch lands on the same place. This time, he really does spit out a tooth, maybe two. The weight of the brass knuckles makes my punches even worse. 

This anger, the one I’m always so quick to release has been there a while, escaping every time I open my eyes. I’m angry at store clerks and drivers. Everything and anything. 

And every time I throw these punches, every single time I’m hurting someone else, it’s them I’m picturing. The people who gave me my last name, and all the ones attached to it. 

The ones who made me nothing but a spare. Content bel0ngs to Nôvel(D)r/a/ma.Org.

I change my direction, digging a savage hit into his ribs, I swore my ears could hear them cracking inside of his chest. Bone crushing pain, that made me feel like I was on the best drug on the planet. Nothing could touch this euphoria. 

“I was there, you fucking scum,” I spit out the words, “I saw her body before the police arrived. Her nails bloody and filthy from clawing at something. Bruised like she’d been held down. Are you going to lie to me, again? I promise if you do, you’ll regret it. Believe it or not, Howard, I’m going easy on you compared to what my friend will do.”

“I’m not lying,” His lungs wheeze for air, “I swear, all of my findings were in the report. That was all of it!” Blood drips from his mouth onto the stark white lab coat. 

I wonder if when he pressed his slacks this morning he’d thought of getting blood on them later. 

If he wanted to be difficult, then we could do difficult. 

“Don’t say I never warned you.”

I turn my back on him, pissed I couldn’t get him to spill more information. 

“He’s all yours.” I mutter.

Giving Thatcher the go-ahead to do whatever it was his twisted mind had come up with. I wasn’t so cruel that I would let him go first. I at least tried to give the good doctor a chance. 

The click of his Oxfords bounce off the wooden floor. The weight of his sinister intentions vibrates off the walls of this office. I lean my back on the wall, resting there as I watch Thatcher take part in one of his favorite pastimes. 

Making people bleed. 

He sheds his suit jacket, tossing it onto the desk, while he takes his time rolling his sleeves up to the elbows. All of this a part of the mental game he plays. 

We were a good contrast, he and I. He was cold and calculated. I was instinctive and hot-blooded cruelty.

The perfect pair of sociopaths. 

Howard violently shakes his head, “Why do you even care?! Come on boys, think about this. If someone found out you assaulted me your futures would be ruined!” He argues frantically, “She’s just some rich girl. Just some dumb girl who overdosed, probably partied all the time, you know that type!” 

The air runs cold, no sounds to be heard except for his labored breathing. From behind him, like silent water, Silas moves from the shadows. His black hood hiding his face as he grabs the back of Howard’s hair, twisting it sharply in his grip. 

With one fluid motion, he jerks his head back, the doctor groaning in protest, 

“Her name was Rosemary. And she was not just a girl.” His voice is coarse, not swift and sharp like Thatcher’s, or sarcastic like Rook’s. It’s coarse, rough, battered and beaten. It’s full of anguish and vengeance. 

“She was mine. And now, you’re going to see what happens when someone fucks with things that belong to me.” He snarls in his ear. 

Thatcher grabs the circular stool near the morgue table, sitting on top of it and rolling his way in front of the tied man. Similar to how a doctor would do when examining a patient. Silas backs up again, arms crossed leaning into the wall continuing to watch. 

“You make a modest living don’t you Dr. Discil? Sixty grand a year? Presumably more here in Ponderosa Springs. That’s a pleasant life for your two sons, isn’t it? How old are they again? Five and ten?” He asks evenly, waiting politely for his reply. 

While doing so, he lays out a black leather bag that’s rolled up. With relaxed hands he undoes the buckles on the side, flipping them up, and slowly starts to unroll them onto the desk. The metallic of the objects inside catches the moonlight, glimmering in the darkness like deadly stars.

“You twisted little shit…” Howard hisses, trying to jar himself out of the chair. 

Thatcher’s long, icy fingers run a path down his collection, back and forth, “I ask because your hands are vital to your work. I of all people know how important hands are to the art of dismemberment, so I correlate to you, Dr. Discil.” 

I grind my teeth, watching as the doctor eyes all of the sophisticated blades on his table. His Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“Still haven’t learned to stop playing with your food before eating, have you Thatch?” Rook says as he continues looking through the office. 

Thatcher just grins, continuing his line of questions. Getting inside of his head is half the fun for him. He doesn’t just like to make them bleed on the outside, he craves the fear on the inside. 

“My father granted me this one,” He says picking up one of the knives, “You know my father, don’t you?” 

The question makes the doctor shake, 

 “Yeah, I presumed you did.” 

“You see, with this knife, I could use this tiny hook here and embed it into the flesh of your back before peeling your skin clean off. I’ve been in the market for a new pair of skin boots.” 

“I don’t know anything! This is pointless!” Howard continues, his voice shaking at the thought of Thatch making him into a pair of shoes. 

Done with the teasing, he grabs a thicker, long blade feeling it in his hand for a moment before grabbing the doctor by the wrist to hold him steady. With precision and almost grace, Thatch slices straight through the first knuckle of his pinky finger. The piece of the appendage falling helplessly to the ground. 

White bone is quickly covered with a fountain of blood, squirting from what is left of his small finger. An inhuman cry erupts from him as he looks down at his hand, horrified of the lengths we’d be willing to go to. 

“You think what he did hurt? Several punches to the gut and a split lip? I will show you pain, Dr. Discil. Extreme pain.” He seethes, “Until the last words you croak from your vile mouth is, please, just kill me. So, I suggest you answer our question before there isn’t anything left for me to cut up.” For a moment the facade of Ponderosa Springs most wealthy, future politician cracks. The creature that lurks beneath coming out to play. 

“I didn’t, I just—” He stutters over his words, ready to crack. Except it’s not fast enough for us. 

The sound of someone chopping a carrot fills the room once again, another knuckle cut off, leaving just a sliver of finger left. Blood soaks the front of Thatch’s white Versace button down. 

Another scream fills the room and I’m grateful we were able to get in here after-hours.

Howard is trying to catch his breath, while Thatcher lines up again, 

“Wait, wait, stop, please! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you, just stop!” 

Finally the words we have been waiting to hear. I lean off the wall, walking towards them a bit, 

“I don’t know who it was. All I know is I received a letter when Rosemary’s body got to my office, asking me to cover-up any evidence of foul play on the body.” He breathes, whining in pain between words, 

“And this has to do with Rose, how?” Thatch applies pressure to his finger. 

“Wait, wait, I’m getting there.” He begs, “At first I was against it, I was going to put my findings in the report anyway b…but…”

“They do what everyone in Ponderosa Springs does. They gave you money for silence.” I finish. My blood pumping hot in my veins. 

“Yes, and I needed the extra money! I couldn’t pass it up. I’d checked my bank account and sure enough, there was the money.” 

“And Rose? What was her cause of death?” Rook asks from behind the desk, his hands gripping the edge of it so tightly I thought the wood might splinter beneath his grip. 

“She had an allergic reaction to something in the drug. It was injected into the side of her neck, I’d found an entry wound. But when I did my examination, someone had shoved a few of the pills into her throat, trying to make it more believable she’d took them herself, but they did it postmortem, so…” 

“So she couldn’t swallow them.” Thatch finishes for him. 

He nods, “She died of anaphylactic shock! That’s all I know I swear to God!” He cries, the blood leaking from his hand pumping out to the beating of his heart. 

There is a quick silence that passes between all of us. We’d expected maybe someone with money was covering up the fact they’d killed her in order to attack the mayor. 

I guess we weren’t the only monsters lurking around in town. 

Thatcher looks over at me and I nod, giving him the go-ahead. He starts to clean up his knives, wiping them on his slacks, placing them neatly in his case. 

“The pills in her throat, where are they?” Silas asks from behind him. 

“Bottom, left drawer. They are in a Ziplock baggie. Please, please, just don’t kill me!” He wails. 

Rook retrieves the baggie, all of us walking towards one another, creating a small circle. 

“They are marked, some kind of symbol on them. It’s faded though, I’d have to check it out.” He squints, looking down at the bright pink pills, “I can call a few people, see who is selling Ecstasy with this tag on them.” 

Fucking drug dealers and marking their shit. 

“And following the drugs is going to do what for us?” Thatcher imposes. 

“It’s all we have right now. It’s that or nothing.” I point out. “Thatcher, finish up and let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

Looking over at Silas I ask, “You good?” 

He nods, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets, “Fine.” 

Knowing that’s all I’ll get from him, I don’t bother asking again. When he needs something, he’ll let us know. Silas doesn’t talk unless absolutely necessary. 

“Wait, wait what are you doing? I told you everything!” Howard screams as Thatcher stalks towards him. 

He bends down, grabbing the back of his head with one hand while the other presses a blade into his throat, a small trickle of blood leaking from the pressure, 

“If you say a word, I’ll come back for the nub. Then I’m taking your treacherous tongue. Or maybe, I’ll go after you kids. You think they’ll like my knife collection?” There is a mumble of words from Howard, some form of a beg, 

“You’ve been good at hiding things lately, make sure it stays that way Dr. Discil. Do. Not. Make. Me. Angry.” He pushes. 

“Is that clear?” 

Thatcher scoops his case up, grabbing the black suit jacket and folding it over his forearm, falling in step behind me as we make our way out of the office. 

I could feel the weight on my shoulders as we walked towards our cars in the parking lot, a snake slithering down my spine, knowing that was the last person we’d leave alive in our journey to revenge. 

Mercy is no more.