The Bleeding

By Max E. Stone

How does a maximum-security inmate commit a murder on the outside? The answer is more terrifying than you think.

Mark My Words...
Derek Warren is smooth, charming, and a master manipulator.
But is he a killer?
I swear...
If so, how is the former businessman committing murder from a maximum-security prison cell?
And what, if anything, does he have planned next?
You'll Never See It Coming...
Detective Stephen Bennett is sure he has the answers to these questions.
But the path of dead bodies leads him to a truth far more disturbing than he suspected...
You Will Bleed...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Max E. Stone
• Release date: Oct 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781304564030

Max E. Stone

Max doesn't remember ever not creating a story.A writer and lover of books since the age of nine, Max first set pen to page as a hobby, constructing stories that were anything but fit for children. Entertaining classmates while simultaneously concerning surrounding adults with blood-ridden tales of gory mysteries and heavy suspense that "just came to mind," Max, with the help of family and the encouraging words of an inspiring teacher, continued to develop this gift.In Max's teen years, the Warrens, Bennetts, and Johnsons, three interconnected families all with issues, mysteries, and secrets that threaten their livelihood and lives, were born.Max reads everything and everyone; relishing the journey of authorhood and learning something new each day.

Book preview

PART 1

PROLOGUE

Mom...Mommy? the trembling boy whimpered in jagged breaths.

His blonde head popped to the surface of blue bed sheets at the tormented wails that broke through his fitful rest on a freezing October night.

And then, silence.

He swallowed hard.

Mommy? he bawled this time, pushing covers aside and preparing to leave his bed to investigate the noise.

Again, the deafening and disturbing quiet.

The youngster eased toward his room's door, turned the knob, and inched the opening wider until he beheld the source of the racket.

Mommy! he screamed.

Supported by the wall facing her son's room, his mother attempted to straighten her body and a mane of matted blonde curls with unstable hands.

Tender blue eyes, warm as a spring evening, waxed ice cold when she saw him watching her.

Derek! she fired, tremulous, from lips that swelled and seeped blood.

At the tears in her boy's baby blues, she softened.

Daddy and I got a little loud. That's all. We're sorry we woke you. Go on back to bed, sweetie.

Without question, the child obeyed and feigned belief of her lie.

The scar above his own left eye reminded him of the consequences if he didn't.

Barreling footsteps rocked the floorboards and Derek stopped in his tracks. The red tint in his plump cheeks faded to a sick pale.

Kim, baby? a man drawled in a wicked singsong. Where are you?

Derek, shut the damn door! the mother howled, fear setting her ablaze. Do it now!

In seconds, with the end of a brownish gold mullet clinging to the back of his damp neck and venomous blue-gray eyes, David Warren appeared and overtook Kim in three strides of his powerful legs.

He snatched a handful of her hair and shoved her into the wall face-first.

She slid to the floor when he unhanded her.

Blood dripped in the crack where her face landed and followed her body to the ground.

Daddy, stop! Derek cried.

Honey, please! Kim begged David, crawling while covering an eye. Not in front of Derek!

Dark red liquid wept through her fingers.

She cowered to a fetal position, not knowing when, where, or how he would strike next.

Wait for the blow...

Be somewhere else...

Dealt as predicted, strike one landed at her nose; the bone's split audible.

This is my house, David told her in all sincerity, catching Kim's wounded face in his hands and thumbing the deep red juices that oozed from her nose and eye.

You are my wife and you must do as you're told. If you continue to disobey, this will keep happening. Understand?

He didn't wait for her classic quivering nod.

They had this talk before.

It took years for her to get the message.

But, nonetheless, she got it.

She knew her place.

He freed her, straightened, and turned to the eight-year-old who made no move to leave the scene.

Go to bed, sport, the father ordered then directed a playful smirk to the boy's mother; the same masculine grin that won her heart at a church picnic years ago.

The one that had later been accompanied by a large diamond ring and a heartwarming marriage proposal.

Mom and I need some time alone.

With those calm words, David lifted his wife from the floor, dragged her to himself, and crashed his mouth down on hers; his tongue lapping up her blood.

When he finished the unwilling invasion of her mouth, she shuddered and addressed a crippled I'm fine, sweetie to her son before both parents vanished around a corner, leaving Derek alone and frightened in a puddle of his own urine.

Nothing out of the ordinary for a night at the Warren house.

His mother spent years asking for help.

She beseeched relatives, friends, and the church.

The kids in Sunday School loved David Warren and wished to God they'd had the same stroke of good fortune in managing the coolest pastor in the world for a dad.

The women at the church talked of his mom's luck in having landed the minister for a husband.

The police rendered no help either.

Most of them knew David from his work in the community.

But Derek knew the truth.

And eight years of age would not stop him from saving the life of the woman who gave him his.

Sirens blared.

Can you tell me your name?

Little Derek huddled on the porch steps, giving no answer to the question from the medical professional seated beside him.

The question was asked of him three times in that moment that he could recall.

The thin blanket around his shoulders proved unsuccessful in warming the chill in his soul. Follow my finger, okay?

The emergency medical worker, shifting to protect the child from the scene, held an index finger in front of his eyes and moved it side to side.

With his vision, Derek followed the movement.

Very good.

But the little boy's mind evaded niceties hours ago.

The adults around him called it shock.

W...Where's my mom? he shook out as dormant tears rained from eyes that had seen too much.

Sweetie? Baby! Where's my son?

A woman's frantic voice pierced the black sky.

The front door flew open and Kim jumped out onto the porch.

She bent to Derek and folded the crying child into her arms, consoling him as best as she could.

Shh, it's all right, baby. I'm so sorry. It's all right.

What a lie.

Nothing was all right.

She knew that much and doubted anything would ever be again.

Layer by layer, the innocence of her son had been stripped.

His only crime?

Being born to a terrified mother and a so-called father who couldn't give any less of a damn.

More sirens exploded.

Cop cars sped down the street and parked at the dwelling the woman and child called home.

Home...

The untrue word had a nice ring to it.

What a joke...

Is he gone, mommy? Derek sobbed.

Yes, baby. He's gone, Kim answered in a dim mix of relief and regret.

Fury seethed at the helm of her words.

Not at her son but at herself and the church home she implored for protection.

The place they'd be treated as family and nothing less.

Yeah, right...

All lies.

All fucking, horrible lies.

The guy beating the hell out of her, the bastard who got his jollies raping her while their son watched had been the only one who held the exclusive position of family member, forcing his wife and child to the background for exploitation and abuse.

Tension built cords in her neck, throat, and temples as she recalled the previous hours when her husband dragged her into the bedroom.

He threw her facedown on the carpet, mounted her wounded body, all the while ignoring her agonized screams.

Don't! Kim shouted when she spied the figure looming in the doorway.

Upon her yell, David turned to find his prized rifle clenched in the small yet determined hands of their eight-year-old son.

You know what you're doing with that thing? David taunted, using his hand over the back of Kim's head for leverage as he sat up. Put that down before you get hurt, son.

Derek didn't answer and his grip on the trigger tightened.

He glowered at his father's head; the weapon steadied and ready to fire.

Get off her now, the child ordered; calm and absent of fear.

A scream in the night flooded Kim's ears and the pain faded in a wash of gore and blood.

Thanks to her baby boy.

CHAPTER 1

We can't help you! the high-cheek-boned woman at the head of the church's boardroom table explained. I'm sorry, but we just can't.

Newly-widowed Kim Warren sat in a chair on the far end facing the woman and her cronies.

Eight of them—deacons, elders, and other church benefactors—observed her in tight-lipped scrutiny.

Much like they had always done in church.

Some things never change...

A week following the death of the pastor, a meeting was called to discuss the future of Dorchester Chapel.

A future all seemed determined to see without the remainder of the church's first family.

They were in the way, a reminder of how things used to be.

I'm sorry, the woman in charge repeated once more. There's nothing we can do. What's done is done.

Her name escaped Kim but she recognized the brunette as a repeat financial supporter with a crush on Pastor Warren who had not exactly made her family's wealth or her feelings about the preacher a secret.

We speak for the pastor in his...absence, she stated, choking on the last word.

I know, Kim grated through clenched teeth, sick to death of the flimsy excuses the board tossed her way. But my son and I are alone and my husband is dead-

We know how that happened.

The chilly murmur came from the man two seats away; an elder named Michael Something Or Other.

Another name she couldn't quite recall.

Upon a quick glance around the table, Kim realized how little she knew about these people.

Perhaps David designed it that way.

Mr. Something Or Other scraped a hand through his salt and pepper coif and rushed to clarify his words.

Look, we understand. We really do,—His tone suggested otherwise—but there's nothing here for you or your son. Wouldn't you rather have a fresh start?

Just so we're clear on something, Kim began, enraged and rising from her seat, you'd have no fresh start to suggest if you had just listened to me!

The femme fatale of a boss at the head of the table smacked her palms down on its top.

That's not our fault! she yelled. We did everything we could!

I'll admit my erred judgment in marrying the bastard, but I begged you to help me get out for the sake of my son and you called me a liar!

We had no proof, another man, eyes locked at the floor, added.

Genuine sorrow breached his vocal chords.

Kim wasn't buying it.

Bullshit! she barked. You had my word! Why wasn't that good enough?

She walked into that sanctuary too many times with overdone makeup and sunglasses that hid bumps, scrapes, bruises, and so much more.

He knew.

They all knew.

But if they’d said anything, it would have likely ruined their positions and paychecks at the church.

The bottom line is— the salt-and-pepper-haired man chimed in, eager to continue with the session and go on to better ways to spend the day—neither your name nor your son's is anywhere in Pastor Warren's will.

Warren!

He shot up at the sound of his surname.

The harsh voice shut out his boyhood memories of 1978 and opened to the top cot of a prison bunk decades later.

Get up!

A sullen guard appeared on the other side of the iron bars, a dark frown distorting his features.

Aww, Warren droned in the same tone he used to schmooze potential clients—women more often than not—into a deal that favored him the most. Can't ask nicely?

You got a visitor, the guard snapped, not falling for the prisoner's game. Like so many before him had.

The inmate rolled out of bed and sauntered to the barred entrance as casual as if he'd strolled to the front door of the mansion he used to call home.

Warren stuck his wrists through the bars.

The officer cuffed him then freed the door's lock and removed his charge from the cell before shutting the door again.

The two trudged down the corridor for what resembled miles.

Next, they rounded a corner and opened a door to a room where one woman, seated in a metal-backed chair at a square table, waited.

Her brown skin fused in accord with her silver-streaked auburn hair.

Black bags under her copper eyes stood out.

She was beautiful, but looked like hell.

In fact, she looked older and more weathered every time he saw her.

The officer lugged Warren to the empty chair in front of her and left the attorney-client room, bolting the door behind him.

I was hoping this was a conjugal visit, Warren joked.

The woman stayed silent, the clench in her jaw visible.

I thought you people didn't crack, he remarked, obviously hoping to get some kind of rise out of her.

Her eyes alone said 'Screw you.'

Getting the message, he cleared his throat and resumed with an inquiry.

So, Dana, any news for me?

"Ms. Mills to you, Derek. We've been through this before, she snarled. I am your attorney and you will address me as such."

Dana Mills, Esquire represented Derek Warren at the start of his trial some years back.

Once upon a time, he could afford her and the rest of the respectable Boulder, Dumas, Sidle, and Associates, the law firm she represented.

At present, he served time for his role as mastermind in an assault in Newport.

Despite her tireless efforts on his behalf, she knew of his guilt and even overheard some of his comments when he thought she wasn't around.

In spite of it all, she had a job to do.

Now, the well of his funding, like her patience, dried up.

And you've done a bang-up job, sweetheart, he placated, anything but grateful for the numerous hoops she jumped through for him.

His unkempt brows furrowed and his mouth curved into a naughty frown.

Bastard, Dana thought as she recalled an evening in the penthouse suite of a posh hotel surrounded by silk bedding, Egyptian cotton sheets, and the hard body of the jailed client seated in front of her.

You should've kept that little whore's mouth shut, but bang-up nonetheless.

And if you'd drank yourself into an oblivion, posted your conspiracy theories online, or complained to your rich, white friends about the hardships of being rich and white like every other bigoted prick on the face of the earth, you wouldn't be here. So don't pin your crimes on me.

Say what you want, sweetie, but you've done so much more than represent me, Derek teased, an edge of evil in his coarse voice.

He let his eyes wander down to the purple silk blouse where her breasts strained against the fabric then up to lips stained with red shine.

Now, remind me again who's the bad one here?

Still you, Ms. Mills spat, cinching her blazer tight and crossing the legs within her gray pencil skirt.

Tired of the monotony, she went on to the reason for her arrival.

The board decided...You're not getting out.

Sobered up, Derek swallowed the bitter news.

What? Ms. Mills taunted. Nothing to say now?

Derek ignored her and called to mind the whore the legal system let be due