“The subject is history,” I said. “In what year did we sign the Declaration of Independence?” Closing my eyes, I prayed Orson would let the question fly.
“Shirley?” he said after ten seconds. “I’m gonna have to ask for your answer.”
When I opened my eyes, my stomach turned. Tears had begun to glide down her cheeks. “1896?” she asked. “Oh God, 1896?”
“EEEEEHHHHH! I’m sorry, that is incorrect. The year was 1776.” She collapsed onto the concrete. “Two for five doesn’t cut it,” he said, walking across the floor to Shirley. He bent down and untied the blindfold. Wadding it up, he threw it at me. Shirley refused to look up.
“That’s a shame, Shirley,” he said, circling her as she remained balled up on the floor. “That last one was a gimme. I didn’t want my brother to have to see what I’m gonna do to you.”
“I’m sorry,” she cried, trying to catch her breath as she lifted her bruised face from the floor. Her eyes met Orson’s for the first time, and it struck me that they were exceptionally kind. “Don’t hurt me, sir.”
“You are sorry,” he said. He walked to a row of three long metal shelves stacked piggyback against the wall beside the back door. From the middle shelf he took a leather sheath and a gray sharpening stone. Then he strolled back across the room and pulled his stool against the wall, out of my reach and Shirley’s. Sitting down, he unsheathed the knife and winked at me. “Shirley,” he coaxed. “Look here, honey. I want to ask you something.” Again, she lifted her head to Orson, taking long, asthmatic breaths.
“Do you appreciate fine craftsmanship?” he asked. “Let me tell you about this knife.”
She disintegrated into hysteria, but Orson paid her sobs and pleadings no attention. For the moment, he’d forgotten me, alone with his victim.
“I acquired this tool from a custom knife maker in Montana. His work is incredible.” Orson slid the blade methodically up and down the sharpening stone. “It’s a five-and-a-half-inch blade, carbon steel, three millimeters thick. Had a helluva time trying to explain to this knife maker the uses to which I’d be putting this thing. ’Cause, you know, you’ve got to tell them exactly what you need it for, so they’ll fashion the appropriate blade. Finally, I ended up saying to the guy, ‘Look, I’ll be cleaning a lot of big game.’ And I think that’s accurate. I mean, I’m gonna clean you, Shirley. Wouldn’t you consider yourself big game?”
Shirley hunched over on her knees, her face pressed into the floor, praying to God. I prayed with her, and I don’t even believe.
Orson went on, “Well, I’ve got to say, I’ve been thrilled with its performance. As you can see, the blade is slightly serrated, so it can slice through that tough pectoral muscle, but it’s thick enough to hack through the rib cage, too. Now that’s a rare combination in a blade. It’s why I paid three hundred and seventy-five dollars for it. See the hilt? Black-market ivory.” He shook his head. “An utterly exquisite tool.
“Hey, I want your opinion on something, Shirley. Look up here.” She obeyed him. “See the discoloration on the blade? That comes from the acids in the meat when I’m carving, and I was wondering if it’s scarier for you, knowing I’m getting ready to butcher you, to see those stains on the blade and realize that your meat will soon be staining this blade, too? Or, would it be more frightening if this blade was as bright and shiny as the day I first got it? ’Cause if that’s the case, I’ll get a crocus cloth and polish it up right now for you.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Shirley said, sitting up suddenly. She gazed into Orson’s eyes, trying to be brave. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Anything. Name it.”
Orson chuckled. “Shirley,” he said, perfectly serious, “I’ll say it like this. I want your heart. Now if you get up and walk out that door after I’ve cut it out, I won’t stop you.” He stood up. “I’ve gotta piss, Andy. Keep her company.” Orson walked to the door, unlocked it, and stepped outside. I could hear him spraying the side of the shed.
“Ma’am,” I whispered, breathless. “I don’t know what to do. I am so sorry. I want—”
“I don’t want to die,” she said, begging me with her stormy eyes. “Don’t let him hurt me.”
“I’m chained to the floor. I want to help you. Just tell me—”
“Please don’t kill me!” she screamed, oblivious now to my voice. She rocked back and forth on her knees like an autistic child. “I don’t want to die!”
The door opened, and Orson cruised back in. “Well, you’re in the wrong place,” he said, “’cause it’s that time.” He held the knife by his side and moved deliberately toward her. She crawled away from him, using only her knees because her hands were still cuffed behind her back. The chain always stopped her. Orson giggled.
“No!” she screamed. “You can’t do this!”
“Watch me,” he said, bending down toward her, the knife cocked back.
“Stop it, Orson!” I yelled, my heart beating in my throat. With the woman cowering at his feet, a puddle spreading beneath her, Orson looked back at me.
Think, think, think, think. “You just …you can’t kill her.”
“Would you rather do it? We can’t let her go. She knows our names. Seen our faces.”
“Don’t cut her,” I said. The lumpiness of tears ached in my throat.
“I do it to all of them, and I don’t make exceptions.”
“While they’re alive?”
“That’s the fun of it.”
“You’re out of your mind!” Shirley screamed at Orson, but he ignored her.
“Not this time, Orson,” I implored, rising to my feet. “Please.”
Shirley screamed, “Let me go!”
“Bitch!” Orson screamed back, and he kicked her in the side of the head with the steel tip of his boot. She slumped down on the floor. “Open your mouth again, good-bye tongue.”
He looked back at me, eyes blazing. “It’s perfect with you here,” he said. “I want to share this with you.”
“No,” I begged. “Don’t touch her.”
Orson glanced down at his victim and then back at me.
“I’ll give you a choice,” he said. Walking to the stool, he set down the knife and pulled out my .357. “You can shoot her right now. Save her the pain.” He approached and handed me the gun. “Here. Seeing you kill her painlessly would be as good to me as killing her the way I like to.” When he looked at Shirley, I glanced at the back of the cylinder. The gun was loaded.
“Shirley, get up. I told you it was a lucky coincidence for you that my brother was here.”
She didn’t move.
“Shirley,” he said again, walking toward her, “get up.” He nudged her with his boot, and when she didn’t move, Orson rolled her onto her back. Her temple smashed in, blood drained out of one ear. Orson dug two fingers into the side of her neck and waited. “She’s dead,” he said, looking incredulously at me. “No, wait, it’s there. It’s weak, but it’s there. I just knocked her out. Andy, now’s your chance,” he urged, taking several steps back from the woman. “Squeeze off a few rounds before she comes to. Aim at the head.”
I pointed the gun at Orson. “Slide me the keys,” I said, but he didn’t move. He just stared at me, sadly shaking his head.
“This is gonna set us way back in the trust department.”
I pulled the trigger, and the gun fired. I squeezed it again and again, the plangent crack of gunshots filling up the shed, the gray smoke of gunpowder ascending into the rafters, until only the clicking of the hammer remained, thumping the empty shells.
Orson hadn’t flinched.
I looked down at the gun, eyes bulging.
“Blanks, Andy,” he said. “I thought you might just threaten me, but you pulled that trigger without hesitation. Wow.” He took the knife from the stool and walked toward me. I threw the gun at him, but it missed his head and struck the back door.