God, how she wished he would speak, wished he could explain what he was doing and why, what he wanted. Never before had she felt so much in the dark, felt such a desire to understand.
When they reached the shoreline, he stopped, turned and faced her, now gripping both her hands in his.
“Please,” she begged above the crashing of the waves around their feet. “Please let me go. I’ll do what you want. Whatever you want. Don’t hurt me.”
She could make out his expression in the moonlight, and she could see from his eyes that he was trying to tell her he didn’t want to hurt her. But she also knew he was going to kill her. It might seem like something else to him, something grandiose and romantic and transcendental, but he was going to kill her. She remembered his letter: “But you must not think I enjoy causing pain. No, that is not it at all, that is not my purpose, surely you can see?... My Knives were sharp. I spent hours sharpening them. I was gentle when I bent over him. He didn’t feel a thing. Please believe me.” She believed him now.
“Please,” she said, “talk to me. Tell me what you want me to do.”
Then he put his hand over his mouth and shook his head. My God, she realized, he couldn’t speak. But at least he could hear her.
Pleading would do no good. Sarah tried to invoke something of Anita O’Rourke’s coolness and competence. Think, she told herself. You’re an actress, goddammit, so act. She couldn’t tackle him herself; he was far too strong. Her best bet was still to play for time. Just stay alive.
He relaxed his grip on her right hand. Not completely at first, but enough to get the circulation flowing again. Then, when he saw she wasn’t going to run away, he let go of both hands completely. He didn’t seem to have a gun or anything, at least no weapon that was immediately visible.
Sarah stood before him and massaged her wrists, the water lapping around her bare feet. What could she do? Run? No, he was powerful and would soon catch her. He wanted to kill her, but how? Walking out into the sea together, or some such sentimental love-sacrifice? He wouldn’t see that as hurting her. People said drowning in salt water was like going to sleep. But how did they know? Sarah had always wondered.
Again, she remembered the letter. He didn’t like to cause pain. But he had killed Jack. Knocked him out with a hammer and stabbed him. And he had stabbed Stuart. Even so, she could already sense that he was sorry he had grasped her wrists so tightly. Could she play on his sympathy?
Between waves, she could hear loud rock music from one of the houses and cars roaring by on the Coast Highway. So near.
His eyes locked with hers and he seemed to be drinking in her presence, inhaling her nearness. She realized in that moment that no amount of pleading or playing on sympathy could delay the consummation for much longer. He had one purpose and one purpose only: their eternal union through death.
Sarah thought she could hear sirens in the distance. Were they for her? Was she hearing things?
Then he reached in his pocket and took something out. His arm moved quickly by the side of his head. Sarah thought she saw something flash in the moonlight. Was that whirring sound coming closer really a helicopter? Was it coming to save her?
He handed her something. It felt like a mixture of hard calamari and soft tomato. She held her palm open in the moonlight and looked. It was an ear. His ear, cartilage and lobe. She dropped it on the wet sand, screamed and stumbled backward. Then she saw him pointing the knife toward her.
He reached out and grabbed her wrist again, the blade in his other hand coming closer. But instead of stabbing her or cutting her, he handed the knife to her, wrapped her fingers around it and stood before her.
My God, she knew what he wanted now. He wanted her to do the same, to cement their love by parting with a limb. A token.
The sirens were getting closer. She could hear cars screech to a halt by the nearest access point. And the helicopter was flying low, shining a cone of light over the beach about a mile to the south.
Still he just stood there, hands out, waiting for her to prove her love with a token of her flesh. She felt violated by his thoughts and desires; somehow, they seemed to have insinuated themselves into her consciousness.
Again she tried to think what Anita would do, then something snapped inside her, the way it had in the trailer that day. Dammit, he wasn’t Van Gogh and she wasn’t Anita O’Rourke. She was Sally Bolton, fighting for her life. And she would bloody well win. After all, he had given her the means. Holding the knife out in front of her with both hands, she pushed it forward with all her strength into his stomach.
For a moment, he didn’t move, then shock spread across his features and he fell to his knees, the blade sticking out of his flesh. It hadn’t gone very far in, Sarah noticed, but it was far enough. She felt sick. She had never hurt anyone before, let alone stabbed them, and as soon as she had done it she felt an awful guilt start to grow inside her. She had hurt another human being, however bad, however twisted he had been. He looked so pathetic now, on his knees in the foam. Not the monster who had written those letters, stalked her, murdered John Heimar and Jack Marillo, stabbed Stuart. He couldn’t be the man who had made her life hell for the past few weeks; he was just a lonely and pathetic figure, hurting, dying.
She looked around. There were cops with flashlights swarming all over the beach now, and the helicopter had landed about a hundred yards away. It was like a scene from a war, she thought, or the invasion of a small island. Men in military fatigues jumped out onto the beach, sand whipping up in the downwind from the helicopter blades, and hurried forward, rifles in their hands. Behind her, she could hear voices barking loud orders.
She was safe now. But when she looked back at the man on his knees in the sea, she still felt that she was caught in some sort of perverse mummers’ play that hadn’t reached its final act yet.
He got to his feet and stood in front of her, swaying a little. He had pulled out the knife and was holding it loosely by his side, but she wasn’t afraid any more. He wasn’t going to try to kill her now. His great vision, his intricate web of delusions, had collapsed, shattered. She had smashed it. They weren’t going anywhere together.
What did he see now, she wondered? Her betrayal or his triumph? His expression was almost unreadable — the religious ecstacy of a St. Sebastian pierced by arrows, crossed with all-too-human shock and surprise. Had he really expected her to cut off an ear and hand it to him? She knew that he had.
His eyes brimmed with pain, sadness and loss. He stretched his hand out to her again and she became so mesmerized by his eyes that she found her own hand reaching out to take it. She could see blood from where he had clutched at the stomach wound, blood shining in the moonlight.
She almost put her hand in his, almost got his blood on her. Christ, now she felt that she wanted to hold him, rock him in her arms, say she was sorry she stabbed him, tell him everything was going to be all right, sing him a lullaby.
What the hell was wrong with her? This man had terrorized her, killed people in her name. And all she wanted to do was hold him and ease his pain, maybe let him take his illusions to the grave. Then she snapped out of the spell and snatched back her hand before it touched his.
“No!” she yelled. But she didn’t know if he heard her or not. Arvo and Maria had come up behind and grabbed her by her arms. They were leading her back toward the police line. He was backing the other way, toward the ocean.
So many men, and they all had their guns out, pointing past Arvo, Maria and Sarah at the man. “Jesus Christ,” Sarah heard one of the uniformed policemen say as she neared him. “What the fuck do we do, shoot him to stop him from killing himself?”