It took three more yanks to rip it off.
Donaldson screamed, and dropped the scissors.
“Can you hear me now?” Luther spoke into the severed ear. He took two steps back from the car. “Can you hear me now?” He raised it up over his head. “How about now?”
Tossing the ear across the road, Luther opened the car door and seized Donaldson’s swollen wrist. He gave it a sudden twist, and there was a sound like bubble wrap popping as all of Donaldson’s broken parts ground against one another.
Donaldson tumbled onto the ground, his knees sinking into the soft earth, the sounds coming from his throat scarcely human.
His good arm still stretched back into the Honda, cuffed to Lucy who’d been dragged across the central console.
“What if I were to tell you, Mr. Donaldson, that I wasn’t here for Lucy at all?”
Donaldson whimpered something incoherent.
“What if I were to tell you that I travelled a very long way just to have a chat with you?”
Luther gave the arm another terrible yank.
Donaldson screamed, the loudest scream yet, and passed out.
Donaldson returned to consciousness with Luther right in his face.
“Were you having a nice dream?”
Donaldson roared, staring at the skin bubbling under the flame on his ruined arm.
Luther snapped the Zippo shut.
“Welcome back,” he said. “Now get the fuck up.”
He strained to drag Donaldson onto his feet.
“My God, you’re fat,” he said.
Donaldson whimpered, struggling to catch his breath. Luther got him onto his knees, which prompted more screaming.
“Loud, too,” Luther said. He reached over Donaldson and grasped Lucy’s outstretched arm. “Help me get her out, Fat Man, or I’m going to play with your arm some more.”
Sobbing, Donaldson managed to pull Lucy free of the Honda.
Luther jammed the airgun into his belt, heaved her over his shoulder, and ordered Donaldson to follow.
The trio trudged up the dirt road. Earth sucked at Donaldson’s bare feet.
“You’re seriously still crying?” Luther asked. “Pathetic.”
Cows groaned in the adjacent field.
Snowfields glowed on the slopes of a mountain range twenty miles away.
The barn loomed fifty yards ahead.
“What do you want?” Donaldson asked, his voice cracking.
“Keep walking, Fat Man.”
The barn stood silhouetted against the night sky, a massive structure with a steeply-pitched roof. Across a winter-killed field, at least a half-mile away, there was a farmhouse. Dark. No lights. No cars out front. It looked abandoned.
Luther said, “The cop. Jack Daniels. You’ve met her.”
“What?” Donaldson’s voice continued to quaver. “Sorry, but you gotta speak up.”
“Jack Daniels. You know her? I saw her talking about you on the news.”
“Met her at a truck stop, few weeks ago.”
“Tell me. Tell me everything.”
So he did. Donaldson told Luther about meeting Taylor, their plans for Jack, and how the bitch had gotten the upper hand. The story took them up until they got into the barn through a giant, sliding door that creaked with rust as Luther dragged it open. Inside, it was pitch black and smelled like moldering hay. Luther led them to one of the support posts for the loft.
“What was she like?” he said, bending down and dropping Lucy.
“What?”
Luther glanced back at Donaldson, saw the blood draining out of the hole where his ear used to be. He turned around and stuck his finger in the hole, holding Donaldson’s head while he screamed. Blood rushed out, and then the flow eased.
“That better?” Luther asked. “I’m kind of tired of repeating myself.”
Donaldson fell to his knees, and then rolled onto the ground. Luther raised up a boot over Donaldson’s bad arm, and the fat man began to blabber.
“She’s a cop,” Donaldson moaned. “Busted a bunch of serial killers. In person, she’s cute. But strong. And smart. I really wished I’d had a chance to dip my wick. Been thinking about going back and looking her up, after I heal.”
Donaldson squinted at Luther, who had found a rusty kerosene lamp with a little gas left hanging from the rafters. He used his Zippo to fire it up and hung it on a rusty nail. A soft, orange glow filled the barn.
“You think you’re going to get that chance now?”
“That depends on you. I’m at your mercy.”
“Yes, you are. You know how this little game usually turns out, don’t you?”
“I know. Can’t say I really care all that much at this point, either.”
“You’re not afraid of death?”
“Brother, I AM death.”
Luther seemed to consider it. Then he walked over and kicked Donaldson in the arm.
“And I am PAIN,” Luther said. “I’m a lot worse than death.”
Donaldson grabbed his swollen appendage and whimpered through the pain until he found his voice again. “Why so interested in that cop? Got a thing for women in uniform? Or… wait a sec… you’re going to make a run at her, aren’t you?”
“I know you think you’re the best at what you do. Obviously, the fact that I’m here, healthy and comfortable, refutes that. There is no one like me in the world. I need a challenge.”
“I can help you.”
“I don’t need your help. Clearly.”
“You could use someone to watch your back. This one isn’t easy. Trust me. She’s a tough nut to crack. We could… hunt her together.”
Luther knelt down and looked Donaldson in the eyes.
“Two more questions and then we can move on to other things. I want your opinion. Is Jack Daniels lucky? Or is she really better than you are?”
“Bitch got lucky.”
“How about me? Did I get lucky, too?”
“Every dog has his day,” Donaldson said, then spat in Luther’s face.
Luther wiped the trail of saliva away with one finger and touched his tongue to it.
“How about Lucy? Looks like she did quite a number on you. Did she get lucky? Or maybe it isn’t luck. Maybe you’re just a used-up, fat piece of shit, and that’s why Lieutenant Daniels beat you. Why Lucy beat you. And why I’m about to beat you. To death.”
Luther kicked Donaldson in the chest, and then began to stomp on the man, using his boot heel.
At first, Donaldson tried to cover up, protect himself.
Eventually he stopped trying.
“That’s just a taste,” Luther said, delivering one final kick and wiping the blood off his boot and onto Donaldson’s heaving chest. “I’ll be back when I move the cars. Stick around, make yourself at home.”
Luther strolled out of the barn and disappeared.
Donaldson struggled to sit up.
“Lucy!” he whispered.
He rolled over and took her tiny face in his hands. Shook her head.
“Wake up!”
He smacked her face three times, and she stirred, her eyes fluttering opening.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“He’s gone.”
“Who?”
“Luther, you dumb bitch. He shot you with a tranq dart. Something short-acting.”
Lucy sat up, moaning. “The nerve block has almost worn off. My legs are on fucking fire.”
“Take a number and join the club.”
“Where are we? It stinks in here.”
“A barn. Your friend, Luther, is not a nice man. I can’t walk and carry you. You can’t walk at all. Where are the keys to these handcuffs?”
Lucy rubbed her eyes. “What?”
“The keys, you stupid—”
“Oh.” She grinned. “It’s like…kind of embarrassing.”
“Look, if we can get these cuffs off, I can surprise him when he comes back. Then we can take his car. But I can’t do that if we’re fucking chained together.”
“Why should I help you? That man… Luther… is my friend.”
“That man ain’t anybody’s friend.”
“People would say the same about you, D.”
Donaldson let out a slow breath. He met Lucy’s eyes.
“Believe it or not, I’ve been thinking about what you said, while your friend was kicking the fuck out of me. About killing together or dying alone. I’m starting to like that idea.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Really really?”