Free Port of Sorrow by Grant McKenzie Page B

stormed across the wooden floor. As she reached the door, she heard Gilles calling, “Don’t turn your back on me, rook. Round 2 is mine.”
     
     
    JULIA COULD BARELY hold back the tears as she tore away from the docks. How could she have thought that Gilles would actually talk to her? The bastard had been nothing but a pig since the first moment they met. What made her think that would’ve changed?
    Turning the radio up high in an attempt to shake the anger, she listened to Wynonna Judd’s latest he’s-a-good-man-with-a-hard-life song, but even that soulful voice failed to soothe her.
    Again Julia wondered if she belonged here in this life, or if she should’ve fought against her nature, given in to Jimmy, and raised bratty kids on the farm.
    Hell no, girl. Everybody would’ve been miserable then. Don’t let a man break you down.
    Her inner-voice was right. She was stronger than that.
     
     
    AS SHE NEARED the outskirts of town, Julia spotted Finn walking in the opposite direction. With a squeal of rubber, she pulled a U-turn and drove up beside him.
    Finn turned to the open passenger window, his face swollen and bruised like a second-prize boxer.
    “We need to talk,” said Julia.
    Finn climbed into the truck.

 
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 15
     
     
    “You set me up,” Wells screamed as he threw open the battered door of his Ford Vigilante truck and jumped into untamed, knee-high quack grass.
    “Take it easy now, boy. Remember who you’re talking to.”
    “Oh, I know who I’m talking to alright,” Wells bellowed. “I’m talking to the son-of-a-bitch who set me up for murd—”
    The words became trapped in his throat as a giant hand lunged forward and wrapped around his windpipe. Thick, callused fingers instinctively squeezed tight. Wells gagged, his face turning blue, his legs kicking helplessly as he was lifted off the ground.
    The man in the faded dungarees studied him without expression. His unblinking blue eyes were soulless. The man unbuttoned Wells’ blue jeans with his free hand and yanked them down.
    “I don’t like dirty talk,” Big Brother said with a smile as he freed a hunting knife from a pouch on his belt and waved its six-inch blade in front of Wells’ bulging eyes.
    Wells shook his head in futile anger as Big Brother sliced through the elastic band of his jockeys. The dull-side of the blade sent a shiver of electricity up each thigh as it pressed into his flesh. Torn briefs fluttered to the ground, leaving Wells’ exposed to the world.
    “Your cock is too goddamn large. I ought a shorten it.” He stroked the knife across Wells’ quivering belly before guiding it down to roughly shave away some dark pubic hair.
    “I used to enjoy eating polar bear balls,” Big Brother continued. “The Inuit eat them raw or in a wonderful soup, but once I showed them how to fry ’em up in garlic butter, there was no other way.” He laughed at the memory.
    Wells couldn’t believe he was going to die in the middle of a junkyard with his pants around his ankles. Tears threatened to burst from his eyes, but he fought them back. Weakness would only quicken his demise.
    Big Brother studied Wells’ blood-drained face and smiled. “Maybe if you get an erection, show me how pleased you are to see me, then I’ll let you go.”
    Wells had played this game before.
    The first time was when he was only ten years old. He sat in a corner of the tree house with a magazine that would make Hugh Hefner blush between his naked legs. His tiny penis was drowning in his hand, and no matter how hard he tried, it stayed wrinkled and soft.
    “Come on, Welly. You a fag or what?” Big Brother teased, forcing his loyal band of neighborhood children to laugh along.
    “I . . . I can’t do it with you all looking,” Wells yelled. His face, pimpled in a promise of the scarring acne that would torment him in later years and force him to grow a beard, flushed crimson.
    “Yeah, you only do it in front of your