Charlie’s mention of radiotherapy confirms my suspicions—he’s sick. He’s not just sick. He’s dying. “How long you got left?” I shove the plate away from me, my stomach twisting.
“Told me I had two months,” Charlie says, grinning at me. “Five months ago.”
“Commiserations.”
“Ha!” he thrusts his fork in my direction, splattering sauce onto the tabletop. “You could give two shits if I live or die, my boy. But it’s nice that you pretend, right?”
“Oh, I definitely give a shit. When you’re dead, Charlie, I’m gonna fucking dance on your grave.”
“And what makes you think you aren’t gonna be in the ground long before me?”
He has a point there. I just send him a hateful look down the table. If it weren’t for the fact that O’Shannessey and Sammy both have guns trained on me, I’d lunge right across the table and drown the motherfucker in his Alfredo Pomdero. I want to see the old man choke.
“Why here, Charlie? Why the hell have you brought us here?”
Charlie glances up from his meal, chewing with his mouth open. “The movie theater?” His eyes travel up to the ceiling, as though observing the decaying opulence and seeing something entirely different. “Your mother used to come with the Duchess here every Saturday for a matinee. They thought they lived in the fucking forties, those two. I thought for a little while the Duchess was cheating on me. I ’ad ’er followed just to make sure she was keeping her fucking knees together, and they told me she was coming ’ere to watch Casa-fucking-blanca and old Rita Hayworth movies. Only place in Seattle that used to play that shit at the time. And that silly bitch, she pissed me off one day, so I bought the place and ’ad it closed down. Kitchen still works, though.” He winks at me—the wink of an insane bastard. “It’s big and it’s quiet in here. The building’s been ’ere so long, people ’ave forgotten it even exists. It’s part of the landscape. People see it without actually seeing it. That makes it the perfect kind of place to lay low when you need to.”
Hiding in plain sight. I have no idea where we are geographically—still in Seattle?—but I’m guessing it’s somewhere blatantly obvious.
“Aren’t you gonna eat your food?” Charlie asks. He’s talking to me with the conversational tone of a concerned friend. I choke on the bitter laugh that wants to burst out of me.
“I would rather starve.” I’m actually fucking hungry, but the sensation doesn’t feel right. My stomach feels like it’s pitching uncontrollably, one minute demanding food, the next threatening to expel its meager contents right onto the table. Hot and cold sweats, too. Whatever happened to my body in that blast, it’s seriously not happy with me right now, that much is clear. And I have no idea if Sloane’s okay, either, which is driving me fucking crazy.
“You should eat,” the old man repeats. “You’re going to need your strength soon.”
That sounds ominous, but guess what? Threats really are something I could give two shits about. Physical pain means nothing to me. Finding Sloane, making sure she’s okay, and then making this bastard pay, in that order; those are the only things that matter.
“Y’know I wasn’t exactly ’eartbroken when I found out you ’adn’t died in that explosion. Since I took you from your uncle, I’ve enjoyed fucking with you. I’ve gained an immense, bottomless kind of satisfaction from watching you suffer throughout your life. I always thought I’d be there when you died, so I could enjoy watching that, too. The bomb was a little classless, I know, but it felt necessary. You ’aven’t been behaving yourself, Zeth. And I couldn’t ’ave that. But then, miracle upon miracles, you and your fucking friends survive, and I get my wish after all. I do get to watch you die.” He spears some chicken on his fork and shoves it into his mouth. I imagine it sticking in his throat. Imagine his face turning purple as he coughs and splutters and fights for air.
“So with that in mind, I’ve organized a little entertainment for myself. There are six blokes on their way ’ere, and every single one of ’em ’as a bone to pick with you. I’ve said they can each go a few rounds with you, see ’ow long they can last. Probably won’t be long since you’re a berserker and they’re fucking stray dogs. I guess that’s my fault. When I used to come into your room at night, I created a bit of a monster, didn’t I? I created a fighter—a fact that might not have worked in my favor in recent days, but still. Was worth it just to ’ear you fucking cry. And if you’re not dead by the time the last man steps into the ring, that’s all the better for me. That means I can kill you myself.”
I hate that he can talk about what he did to me so flippantly. This man has fucked me over more ways than I can count. He sent me to possibly the worst place on earth and left me there to rot for years. He killed my mother. He stalked the shadows of my bedroom on a near-nightly basis when I was just a snot-nosed shit of a teenager—tried to kill me—and yet he’s shown no remorse. Where I’m concerned, it’s very fucking clear he’s proud of his accomplishments.
“So you have to bring in six guys to wear me down before you’ll take a shot at me, old man? Is that it? I seem to remember you being a lot braver when I was a third of the size I am now.”
O’Shannessey snickers. Charlie doesn’t look at the man, but every muscle in his body stiffens. O’Shannessey realizes he’s just fucked up and clears his throat, shifting from one foot to the other. “I’m not a fuckin’ idiot, Zeth,” Charlie snaps. “I didn’t go through weeks of therapy and needles and fucking endless, humiliating exams just so you can smash your fist through my face. You’ll have to forgive me if I seem a little…delicate, but I want to preserve what life I have left.”