Emily Kenyon 01 - A Cold Dark Place

herself, to stop her daughter from doing what she had done once. There would be no more blood on their hands, no matter the reason. “Honey, stop!”
    Jenna froze in a semicrouch, her bloodied weapon held like a baseball bat, droplets of blood dotting her face like scarlet freckles. She looked at her mother with wide, scared eyes.
    “Stop, Jenna. Now”
    “But, this is my fault .. deg”
    “Now! Drop it!”
    Jenna let the bar fall; its heavy steel clatter echoed. Nick lay still on the dirty cement floor. He was curled up in a fetal position. A rivulet of red ran from his blood-matted hair down onto his pale, white cheek. His breathing was labored and raspy.
    Jenna was sobbing now. “I want to go home, Mom”
    “You’re not going anywhere” Dylan kicked the rebar out of the way and brandished his gun, the gleam of black barrel visible in the dark bunker. “Nice work, kid,” he said to Jenna. “Nick told me you were tough. Tough like your mom”
    “Dylan, Nick is your son. He needs help.” It was Emily. She knew it was a last-ditch effort to try to wheedle some sympathy from the man. Was there anything in his DNA that tied him to his son? A bond? Any connection whatsoever?
    “You’re confusing me with someone who gives a shit. Nick served his purpose. I don’t care if he lives or dies.”
    It dawned on Emily that Dylan Walker might be one of those serial killers who didn’t like to get his hands dirty. Killing someone only brought a rush when he could manipulate someone else to do it. It was a coward’s way to kill.
    Killing Tuttle had been a manipulation.
    He pointed his gun at Jenna.
    “Leave her alone!” A familiar voice called out.
    Emily looked up and saw a figure backed by a halo of light coming into the bunker.
    “Leave her alone!” the voice repeated.
    The figure was carrying a gas-powered camping lantern. Its fiery mantle hissed in the darkness. As it moved closer, the smaller figure appeared to be woman.
    “We’re over here!” Jenna called out.
    “Shut up,” Dylan said.
    Emily rested a hand on her daughter and tried to feel for the steel bar. How far had he kicked it away? She tilted her head to look into the streaming light.
    “Don’t even think about it,” he said.
    To Emily’s relief, the light ran over the startled face and tiny torso of Olga Morris-Cerrino. Her eyes were round and terrified. It was just a quick strobelike image, but Emily could see that Olga’s gun was drawn.
    From near Emily’s feet, Nick moaned.
    Olga lowered the lantern. “Are you okay?”
    “We’re all okay,” Emily said. “But he needs a doctor.”
    Olga stared at the crumpled boy while Dylan moved the gun barrel around the room, unable to see where anyone was.
    “Let us go!” Emily yelled. “Olga, be careful. Dylan has a gun”
    The lantern was steadier, casting a ghostly light over the bunker. Olga could see the little tableau now. Jenna was crouching down low, crying softly a few steps from Nick, who was on his side curled in the fetal position. His hair was matted with blood. His eyes were slits of white. The light swung again slowly, including Dylan and Emily in the composition.
    Hang on. This isn’t over.
    “You miserable piece of garbage,” she said in a low rasp.
    “Wow, scary,” Dylan answered with his washed-up, hasbeen, serial killer laugh, underscoring his contempt.
    Emily shifted her attention to Dylan. She meant to distract. “Look what you’ve done. None of this was necessary. What’s the point of it all?”
    “Mom, I’m scared,” Jenna said. “I want to go home”
    “You’re all going now,” Dylan said, in a still, uncertain voice. “But not home. You messed with my legacy.”
    A cry came from the floor of the bunker. It was Nick.
    “I hate you!” Nick pulled himself up, leaning on his palms, turning a bloodied face to his biological father.
    “You ungrateful kid,” Dylan yelled back.
    “Why did you let her hurt me? You told me you’d protect me if I did what you wanted”
    “You get your stupidity from your mother’s side of the family,” Dylan said. There was no irony in his statement. Just a cold hard comment.
    Olga dropped the lantern and rolled it toward Emily, spinning light in the cavernous space like a cop’s strobe. Emily aimed the trigger at Dylan’s chest and she fired. No warning. Just three bullets firing in rapid succession.
    Pop. Pop. Pop.
    Dylan slumped down onto the cold floor.
    “You shot me, you bitch!” he said, a gurgling sound