Bone Secrets 03 - Buried

can, waiting for his stomach to hold still. Sweat dripped from his forehead into the can. Chris fell back against the wall, sliding to sit on the floor, the can clutched between his hands.
    Fuck.
    He hadn’t had a reaction like that in at least six months. The discovery of the children’s remains had brought everything fresh to the surface. He spit into the can, wincing at the acid taste. Not ready to get up, he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He needed a few more minutes. He breathed deep through his mouth in an attempt to not smell his own vomit. That technique semi-worked.
    Twinkies. Fucking Twinkies.
    His empty stomach churned.
    The Ghostman had a Twinkie fetish. Healthy food was rarely available in the Ghostman’s pit, but Twinkies always were. At first the kids were thrilled at the constant supply of the junk snack. But watching the Ghostman eat one…cleaning out the center with his tongue…that was enough to make a kid put the little cake back up. Then later…when the Ghostman wanted the boys to hold the Twinkies in their mouths…
    Chris’s stomach found more fluids to hurl into the can.
    I hope these Twinkies keep your mouth full.
    Fucking nut job. Perverted child abuser.
Salty wet tracks ran down Chris’s face.
    At that moment in the hospital, Chris had known he could never say a word about his two years with the Ghostman. The Ghostman had found him. And proved that even in a hospital with a cop standing outside the door to keep the media vultures away, the Ghostman could touch him. The note was a reminder directed at his family.
    Your family is extremely lucky to have you back.
    If Chris told his family anything, the Ghostman would make his threats against their lives come true. His only way to protect his family was to be silent. He made a vow to himself. No matter the cost, Chris would never speak of those days.
    Brian sighed in his sleep. Chris had made another vow. His son would never know the touch of a pervert like the one who had owned him. His son would never have his life turned upside down and inside out. Chris had kept that promise. Brian never lacked for company or stimulation. Chris was his best friend, teacher, playmate, and confidant. Brian didn’t remember his mother. Occasionally he asked, but the answer that his mommy was an angel satisfied him. For now. The harder questions would come later.
    He blew out a deep breath. His stomach was quieting. He slowly pulled himself off the floor and carried the garbage can to the bathroom. He flushed the contents, rinsed the can three times, and flushed it again. He silently walked through the little room, glancing at his laptop. All quiet at his home. Perhaps he was being too cautious. Too overprotective.
    He will never touch Brian.
    No. Chris wasn’t overprotective. Until he knew that the Ghostman was dead, he had a son to safeguard.
    He reached through the window and placed the can out on the roof. The smell still lingered. He considered closing the window, but the room was too warm. The odor should dissipate. He gazed out over the quiet street and thought about Brian playing with Juan’s dog. Every boy should have a dog. Maybe when things calmed down, he could find a dog. One who needed a good home. Perhaps a rescue dog. It would be a good situation for both of them.
    A small sliver of the moon hung low in the dark night. Chris stared. He liked the quiet of this town. He liked the open sky and the open land. He didn’t want to move again. This was the only home Brian had known. He wanted to keep that sense of stability for the boy. But if he felt threatened or unsafe, he and Brian would be on the road before the sun came up. He had a dozen plans in place if he ever needed to leave. It gave him peace of mind to know the two of them could vanish without leaving a trace. He prayed he never needed to implement those plans. He felt good here. He felt like he could breathe. Like he could heal.
    Chris stretched, feeling his right shoulder pop. It’d never been the same since the Ghostman’s hands. He massaged the joint as he went to close his laptop. Enough monitoring for tonight. He was about to fall asleep standing up. He put his hand on the lid and froze.
    A man was standing outside his home, his back flat to the front wall, peering in a window. The small sliver of moonlight found the gun in the man’s hand. Chris stared at the man’s hair. He recognized the man’s stance, the angle of his face.
    It was time to