Sawbones: A Novella Read Online Free PDF

No way some weirdo grabbed her and bundled her off in his shit-brown Winnebago. He’d have to kill her first.”
    Henry takes the cigar from his mouth and stares at the glowing red tip. “This ain’t a search and rescue mission, Jack, this is revenge. We’re going to find this Sawbones asshole and we’re going to take him back to New York. Where Mr Jones will make sure he spends the last few months of his miserable life in a shit-heap of pain.”
    I point the car west on the Interstate, coaxing it up to a lumbering fifty miles an hour. Damn engine sounds like it needs the last rites and a decent burial.
    It’s a shame about Laura – she was a good kid. Smart. Bit kooky, but nice with it. I’ve known a lot of guys like Mr Jones, and their kids are always assholes. They see their dads with all this power and people afraid of them and shit, and they think they deserve some of that too, just ’cause they’re the boss’s son or daughter.
    Laura was always like a normal person. And she’d make you coffee if her dad was on the phone or something and you had to wait. I liked her.
    But Henry’s right – if this Sawbones guy has got her, she’s dead.

Chapter 8
Laura Jones – Not quite dead yet
    It’s dark, and it’s raining. Again . Laura tries to get comfortable, but she can’t. The cable-ties dig into her wrists and ankles, not quite tight enough to cut off the blood, but tight enough to hurt. There are more cable-ties looped through her bonds and a set of rings bolted to the Winnebago’s floor, making sure she doesn’t go anywhere. Her head’s pounding. The gag doesn’t help much either.
    She’s sitting with her back to the stove, rocking back and forth as the motor home bounces through yet another pothole. Trying to brace herself so the noose around her neck doesn’t choke her as the Bastard driving weaves his way along some God-forsaken back road.
    Laura closes her eyes and tries to doze. Maybe if she can get some sleep she wouldn’t be too tired to come up with a plan.
    A final lurch and the Winebago stops.
    One of the other girls – with a bruised face, her eyes like something caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck, starts to cry. Her sobs are muffled by the gag. Not loud enough to drown out the sound of rain hammering on the roof.
    There are four of them in here. Laura and three others. None of them much older than nineteen at a guess. All of them scared.
    Up front, the Bastard is singing softly to himself – some sort of hymn – and then he pushes through the curtain hanging between the front seats and the living area. Click – and a pale, half-hearted light flickers through the back of the Winnebago.
    The place is filthy, the carpet covered with dirt and stains that Laura doesn’t want to think about. Everything is a mess, the windows covered up with flattened cardboard boxes, held in place with duct tape. It smells of fear and sweat and piss.
    Four young women and the Bastard.
    He steps nimbly over the crying girl and reaches for the holdall on the table, making sure to steer well clear of Laura’s feet. Once kicked in the knee, twice shy. She tries to tell him exactly what her dad’s going to do to the Bastard when he catches him, but all that escapes the gag is, “Mmmmmgh mmmmmnt, mnnnninmmmmt!”
    The Bastard smiles down at her, unzips the holdall and pulls the tazer out, waggling the thing at her. “Now, now. We don’t want to be electrocuted again, do we?”
    New Jersey – Wednesday – Two days ago
    Brian is such an asshole. Telling her he’s going to Harvard when they’re both supposed to be going to Yale. Asshole, asshole, asshole. She storms out of the cinema, throws her head back and shouts it out loud, “Brian James Anderson is an ASSHOLE!”
    Harvard.
    And he’s got the nerve to act all shocked when she pours her Diet Coke over his head.
    She wipes a tear away with the heel of her hand. She’s not going to cry over him. He’s an asshole and a jerk and she wishes