The massive ten-foot-high door was cracked open wide enough for me to slip inside. Several battery-operated lanterns lit up the tables placed in there to organize the boxes of equipment, guns, ammunition, and other electronic devices. Far behind them, several rows of vehicles from Ashabee’s manor gleamed in the lantern light. I weaved my way through them, searching for Viggo, and encountered Thomas instead.
He was sitting at the end of one of the tables in the second-to-last row, fiddling with something. Looking up as I approached, he met my gaze and then dropped his head back down, turning the object over in his hands. I slowed, then stopped, seeing how Thomas was also affected by Owen’s tragedy.
I didn’t want to wait, but I needed to reach out to him, too. “Are you okay?” I asked.
He blinked and met my gaze again. After a second, he shook his head. “I was making this for Owen,” he announced, his voice whisper soft. “For Ian, actually. For when he…”
Trailing off, he set the object down on the table. I looked at it: it was a crude piece of electronics, with wires jutting out of it, but I could see it had been made in the semblance of a human. Although, its head and limbs were more square-shaped instead of round.
“It’s a robot. A machine that looks like a man,” he admitted hoarsely. “It’s just a toy, and it’s not finished yet… I still needed some parts, but I—”
I touched his shoulder. “I know,” I whispered, giving him a squeeze.
He looked up at me, his dark eyes teary, and sniffled loudly. “Is Owen… Is he all right?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said simply. “Maybe one day… but not today.”
Thomas nodded, picking up the toy again. “Viggo is in the back of the barn,” he said. “He’s not all right either.”
Swallowing hard, I removed my hand from Thomas and headed to the back, moving behind the silent rows of vehicles. The barn was large, bigger than the house, and smelled thickly of mold. My boots slipped over the damp boards underneath me as I walked. I wasn’t quite through the rows of cars when I began to hear the rhythmic sound of something hitting something else.
I headed toward it, and in the back, inside one of the defunct animal stalls, I found Viggo. He was shirtless, his muscled torso glistening with sweat. As I approached him, I saw his arm whip out again and again, his bare knuckles striking a freshly cut log the length of my leg, which was swinging from a rope off a beam overhead. I didn’t need to see his fists clearly to know they were bleeding. If he kept this up, he’d have broken bones—if he didn’t have any already.
Underneath the fury coming off him in waves, I could sense his desolate mood, and my heart broke for him. I came up behind him, not bothering to hide my approach, and laid a hand on his shoulder. He stopped striking the board, but his back heaved under my hand as he sucked in air.
“I’m going to need some time,” he said after a long moment. “Please, just leave me alone.” He squared his shoulders and began hitting the log again, his fists slapping wetly on the wood. Even under the dim light of the lantern, I could see dark blood spattered and smeared across the bark.
My need to accept his words at face value was strong, but not stronger than my need to find out the truth. I took a deep breath, then stepped in between him and the board.
Viggo’s eyes narrowed, and he pulled up short. He reluctantly lowered his fists, his green eyes meeting mine.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I need to know what happened. Owen blames you for some reason, but I know you, and I know you would never—”
“Owen is right,” Viggo breathed harshly. “It’s my fault.”
I shook my head. “I don’t believe you. You would never do anything to hurt those boys. To hurt any child.”
Viggo stared at me, then looked away, shaking his head. “I did this time.” He made no effort to hide the deep disgust in his voice, and I ached, knowing this was tearing him apart.
“Viggo, please. Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”
He reached up to wipe his nose, stopping as he realized that would just smear his bloody knuckles. With a grimace, he moved over to where his shirt hung over the stall wall and tore a long strip from the bottom. I watched as he fiddled with it a moment, and then moved over to him, pushing it aside and taking it in my left hand. “Let me do it,” I said, placing the fabric in between the fingers of my right hand, which I could now squeeze together a little, if I tried. It was awkward with the cast, but I managed to pinch it between two fingers, holding the cloth secure as I wrapped him up with my left.