As I turned to leave, the curtain to the shower stall moved and Robby Harrison stepped into the room.
He lunged toward me, and I briefly glimpsed another figure behind him. My muscles tensed as I grabbed the handle and pulled the door inward.
I stopped. There was nowhere to go.
At the threshold stood Mr. John Harrison, hay dealer, horse trader, and, according to our farrier, "a creepy bastard." He had severely beaten a horse with a whip, and he'd gotten away with it. His arm was outstretched, pointed at my face, and in his hand, he held a gun. Rain drops glistened on the black metal.
Harrison took a step forward. I had no choice but to back up. He directed me backward until my shoulder blades hit the first stall.
I had only glimpsed his face. What held my undivided attention was the small, round hole at the end of his gun. As black and final as death itself.
He latched his fingers around my throat and pressed the muzzle into my scalp above my left ear. Pressure began to build across the bridge of my nose, and the veins in my neck throbbed. It wasn't until then that I clearly saw Harrison's face. His lips were pulled back from his teeth like an animal's, and his eyes were stretched wide and unblinking. In the fluorescent light, they looked black.
I didn't have a chance.
I slid my fingers into my pocket and felt for my knife. It wasn't there. I remembered the thud as something had dropped behind Marty's couch.
Harrison licked his lips. "It's about time you and I got together, Mr. Stephen fucking Cline. You got away from me once, but you damn well won't this time."
He was leaning on my neck so hard, I thought I was going to pass out.
"How's that feel Steve? Huh?"
He tightened his grip, and I tried to move.
"Uh-uh." He pressed the gun's muzzle harder against my skin. "Don't try anything. You ain't goin' nowhere. What you are gonna do is learn. You're gonna fucking learn about it tonight. About fear and pain." He laughed. "And I'm gonna teach you."
Bastard.
Without taking his gaze off me, Harrison spoke over his shoulder to the man I thought I recognized from that night back in February. "Rich, hand over the rope."
The guy held the rope out to Harrison.
"Not me, you idiot. Give it to Robby." He gestured to his brother. "Now, go back outside and stand guard."
The guy was nervous, not as comfortable with the job as his buddies, and most ominous of all, he wouldn't look me in the eye.
The door thumped closed, leaving the room suddenly quiet. Harrison turned back to me. "All I hear is Foxdale this and Foxdale that, and I was getting damn sick of it. People leaving my place and comin' here. Saying 'Steve Cline's done this, and he's done that, and isn't the place nice.' Enough to make you puke." He clenched his teeth. "So when somebody wanted me to mess with your precious Foxdale, you think I needed askin' twice?"
No one answered.
He moved his face closer to mine. I could smell his sweat. His breath stank of cigarettes and beer as it slid across my skin. I looked past his face to the door.
"Shit, no," Harrison continued. "I didn't need askin'. Hell, he didn't even have to pay me, you being such a prick and all, checking the hay like it was your own damn money you was partin' with. And if that wasn't enough," his voice vibrated with anger, "I see your stupid little announcement stuck up on the bulletin board like you're some kinda Dick Tracy, and I can't use my truck and trailer no more, and all because of you, you fucking piece of shit. Imagine what I thought," he coughed and choked on his spit, "when I get your fucking stupid letter in the mail."
I didn't say anything.
"I decided, then and there, that I was gonna kill you. Kill you and make you pay. Make you suffer."
Behind him, Robby stood in a wide-legged stance, jiggling the coins in his pocket as he watched me with interest.
"Every day that went by," Harrison said, "it was all I could think of. Getting my hands on your scrawny neck and making you pay."
He let go of my throat and backed up. I could still feel his fingers on my neck.
"Lie on the floor, face down."
I took a shaky breath as Robby coiled the rope in his hands. He was wearing gloves. They both were. No fingerprints. No clues. I wondered if I'd end up in the woods, too.
"I said, 'lie down,' damn it!"
I wouldn't have a chance, not tied up.
"Lie down, or I'll shoot you right now." He raised the gun and pointed it at my face.
I got on the floor.
"Robby, make it tight," Harrison said. "I don't want him getting out of it this time."
Robby… Robert. Same as my father, same as my brother. Ironic. If they killed me-when they killed me-I wondered if the old man would somehow blame me. "He should have stayed in school, gotten an education and a good job, then none of this would have happened."
Robby was going to make sure this time. He yanked the poncho off and roughly tied my hands. When he was finished, he stood up and rubbed his hands together.
Harrison jammed his knee into the small of my back, grabbed a handful of my hair, and pulled my head off the floor.
Something touched my throat. It was cold and thin and sharp. I hadn't seen it coming. Maybe it was just as well. I closed my eyes. He pressed the knife harder against my skin. I tried to move away from the pressure but couldn't.
Blood trickled down my neck and soaked into my shirt.
Without warning, Harrison loosened his grip on my hair, and the blade cut deeper. I groaned with the effort of keeping my back arched. If I lowered my head, the knife would cut deeper. He shifted more weight onto my back. I gritted my teeth and grunted.
The bastard. I couldn't hold it much longer.
"Say something," he growled.
I wouldn't. Not if I could help it. He was going to kill me anyway. I would not give him the satisfaction of hearing me beg… or cry.
"You should of heard Peters," Harrison said as if he'd read my thoughts. "He cried like a baby, didn't he Robby? And boy could he scream. Screaming and crying for me not to hurt him, the old fart. Guess he shouldn't have reported me, the stupid son of a bitch."
Harrison took the knife away, and my face smashed against the cement.
He moved his face close to mine and whispered, "You're going to beg for mercy, scream for it, before the night's out."
My back and shoulder muscles trembled uncontrollably as the chill of the cement seeped into my sweat-soaked skin. I clenched my fists to stop the shaking.
Robby said, "Let's get going. It's not safe here. Anyway, you can take your time with him at the farm."
I closed my eyes and felt sick.
"Yeah, well… I want him to beg." Harrison kicked me in the ribs. The blow knocked the breath out of my lungs. He nailed me again, this time on my shoulder.
"Don't kick him in the head," Robby said. "I don't want to have to carry the bastard."
"Say something, damn it."
He kicked me again and again, and in a very short time, I lost count. I gritted my teeth to keep myself from groaning. Maybe I could talk my way out of it. It was worth a try.
I struggled to regulate my breathing and said, "The police know you murdered Peters."
"Yeah right." He punctuated his words with kicks. "They don't know shit."
Each blow seemed to merge with the next. My skin burned, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.
I gulped some air. "And they know that you helped Sanders with his insurance swindles. Do you think he's going to keep his mouth shut when they come down on him?"
Harrison became very still. Somewhere in the room, flies droned above the drip of a faucet. He began to pace, and it seemed that his agitation increased with each passing second. His boots scraped across the grit on the cement, and his breathing grew louder, faster, out of sync with the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears.