"Glad to see you brought the ax," Andy said. “Because I'm afraid when I cut this worm in half, I'm gonna end up with two of the slimy bastards. So if you'd cut down the first one that gets up, that'd be a big help."
Silbert looked at Matt with wide, terrified, pleading eyes as the front of the log hit the blade, spraying him with sawdust. There were only seconds left before Silbert would be halved.
Matt threw his ax like a tomahawk at the electrical cable that snaked from the Frick saw to the junction box on the wall.
The cable split in a spray of sparks, shutting down the saw, and the ax stuck in the wood in the wall.
Matt hurried over to Silbert, fearing the worst.
Silbert's head was covered with sawdust, the serrated edge of the blade stuck in his scalp, blood seeping from the wound. But he was alive, simpering and pissing into his pants, the acrid stench of urine competing with the odor of Andy's rot to turn Matt's stomach.
There was also a strange little sore on Silbert's cheek, like a festering blister, only there was something more malignant about it. But before Matt could give much thought to it, Andy grabbed his shotgun, stepped away from the controls, and marched over.
"Why did you do that?" Andy wailed.
Matt faced Andy and stood protectively in front of Silbert. “Because you would have killed him."
"That was the idea, you fucktard," Andy said. He had the guard's gun wedged under the waistband of his pants and the shotgun cradled in his arms. “Move away so I can blast him."
"I'm not going to let you do this."
"You'd like to kill the bastard, too. You just don't have the balls to do it."
"Enough people have died tonight," Matt said. “This isn't you, Andy."
"What are you talking about? Haven't you heard? I'm the most worthless creature that ever crawled out of a woman's snatch."
"Your father was wrong," Matt said. “You were a good kid then, and I know that deep down inside you're still a good man now."
"You ever wonder what happened to Daddy-o?"
"Nope," Matt said. “I was just glad that he left."
"One night, when he was taking Momma up the ass on the kitchen table, I beat him to death from behind with a crowbar," Andy said. “And then Momma and I borrowed your father's saw and cut him up into little pieces. She stewed the meat and we ate him so nobody would ever find his body. We had Daddy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for two weeks before he was finally gone. At least he had the courtesy to marinate himself in beer for most of his life. Can't imagine how much worse he would have tasted otherwise."
"I don't believe you," Matt said.
But he did. No matter how hard he tried to tell himself this was a lie, this was part of Andy's insanity, he knew it was the truth.
"I've been carrying that taste in my mouth for twenty years, buddy. There wasn't enough beer, whiskey, or pussy to wash it way. But tonight, for the first time, it's gone." Andy held the shotgun out to Matt. "Want to take the fall for me again? Huh? What do you say? If they give you the chair, you might not feel a thing."
"I can't get you out of this one, Andy. But I can make sure you walk out of here alive."
"What would be the fun in that?"
The mill was suddenly rocked by the sound of the chopper flying low overhead, and an instant later, a blinding light blasted through the skylight above.
Matt took advantage of the distraction and charged Andy, slamming into him hard and pushing him back against the sorting table, the shotgun falling from his grasp and clattering to the dust-covered floor.
Andy cackled with glee. "You fight like a girl."
He kneed Matt in the stomach, shoved him away, and reached for his gun.
But he didn't have it.
Matt did.
And he was pointing it at Andy.
"It's over."
"Who are you kidding? You can't shoot me." Andy looked over at the sorting table, which was covered with cant hooks for turning logs. "Because you like me. You really, really like me."
"I won't let you hurt anyone else."
"But you and your parents didn't mind letting my daddy hurt me every single fucking day. And you don't even want to know what he did to my mother." Andy perused the cant hooks, hefting one and then another, shopping for just the right one for the task. "You knew it was happening, but you just didn't care."
"I did," Matt said. "But there was nothing I could do about it. I've tried to make it up to you ever since."
The mill rumbled again as the helicopter made another pass, raking the interior with light. Matt could hear sirens in the distance, getting closer.
"What you've done, Matt, is make my life miserable." Andy found a cant hook he liked and lifted it up. The curled, hardened-steel edge was sharpened to a fine point.
"You wouldn't get off my fucking back. You were always there, showing me how much better you were, how much happier you were, and what a shit-bag loser I was by comparison."
"I was trying to be there for you, to help you."
"Bullshit. You just wanted to keep reminding me that my dad was right. The only favor you ever did for me was dying. And you didn't even have the fucking decency to stay dead." Andy hefted the cant hook and advanced on Matt. "Try harder this time."
Andy swung the cant hook at him.
Matt leapt back and barely evaded getting snagged by the sharp point.
"Stop, Andy, or I will shoot you."
"You don't have the balls." Andy swung again.
Matt fired two shots into Andy's chest.
Andy looked down at his chest, then back up at Matt.
Andy's face and neck were restored.
The rot was gone.
He cocked his head, regarded Matt for a moment with an expression of profound sadness, and then collapsed.
Matt fell to his knees and dropped the gun on the floor. He stared at Andy, his oldest friend and the first person that he'd ever killed, and couldn't help wondering…
Was the sadness Andy felt in that last dying moment for himself…
…or was it for me?
And that's when he heard it, almost lost in the rumble of the helicopter overhead and the wail of the police sirens outside and Silbert's whimpering.
It was barely audible, but it was there, he was sure of it.
The receding sound of wicked laughter.
As he listened to the laughter fade, his gaze fell on something small, wet, and sticky lying in the sawdust on the floor.
A freshly licked lollipop.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Matt sat on the hood of a cop car, watching all the activity while he waited to be allowed to go home. Entire families and kids on bicycles crowded around the sawmill fence, watching and waiting for something to happen. Scores of police officers scurried around, scribbling in their notepads and generally looking dazed and confused. The Sheriff's Department helicopter circled overhead, aiming its spotlight here and there, for no apparent reason. Crime scene investigators crawled all over Andy's car, taking pictures and scraping things into baggies, though Matt didn't see the point of any of it.
Andy had massacred six people and now he was dead.
Matt had killed him.
Case closed.
What more did they need to know?
Matt, on the other hand, had all kinds of questions, none of which could be answered by a geek in a forensics lab.
Andy was going bad days before the massacre, and only Matt could see it (although, to be fair, people had been telling him for years that Andy was an asshole).
How was it possible?
Then again, how was anything in Matt's life possible since the avalanche?
A few yards away, Roger Silbert sat in the back of an open ambulance, his head bandaged and a blanket around his waist to hide his soiled pants, giving a statement to a uniformed officer.