Probably, yeah.
No, no, no! the dragon cries. Crunch his bones!
Shut up, I say.
The other voice remains quiet. It's still there, it's just silent. Waiting.
"Are you making that offer, Peter?" I ask.
"Of course I am. There's a knife between the cushion and arm of the chair."
I transfer the gun to my lap and reach with my fingers along the side of the cushion. I feel it. Cold steel. I fumble until I find the handle, grab it, and draw the knife out.
"Look at it."
I do. It's a hunting knife. Made to cut flesh.
"Scars," Hillstead murmurs. "Reminders. Like . . . rings on a tree, marking times gone by." One eye peeks out from behind Bonnie's head and fixes on me. I see it moving, can almost feel it on my face. Like soft hands tracing my scars. Loving them, in a way, I realize. "I want to put my mark on you, my Abberline. I want you to see me when you look in the mirror. Forever."
"And if I do?"
"Then I will let you use that knife to cut Elaina free. Whatever else happens, she will walk out of here, alive and well."
Elaina is trying to talk through her gag. I look over at her. She is shaking her head. No, her eyes are saying. No, no, no . . . I look at the knife. Think about my face, the road map of pain it's become. It's meant the loss of everything. That's what my scars have been reminders of. Perhaps the scar he wants will be a reminder of saving Elaina. Perhaps it will just be another scar. Perhaps we'll all die here and I'll be buried with it as an unhealed wound.
Perhaps I'll put the gun to my own head and pull the trigger. Would my hand shake then? If it was me I was shooting at?
The world spins, Bonnie becomes Alexa, Alexa becomes Bonnie, and oceans roar inside my head. I feel both peaceful and terrified. Losing my mind, yes, sir. No bout adout it.
I turn away from Elaina's eyes.
"Where?" I ask.
That peeking eye widens. I see the edge of it crinkle. He's smiling.
"A simple request, Smoky-mine. We'll keep the one side free of scars. I like to think of you as beauty in one profile, beast in the other. So, on the left. One single line, from below your eye to the corner of that beautiful mouth."
"And if I do this, then I get to cut Elaina free?"
"So I've said." He shrugs. "I could be lying, of course."
I hesitate, and then I bring up the knife. There was never any question. Why delay?
Don't delay, do it today! the crazy-me cackles. Cut yourself now, and we'll throw in an Easy-Bake oven--free!
I put the tip under my left eye, feel its coldness. Funny, I think. Nothing feels quite as cold, quite as unfeeling as a knife when its edge is against your flesh. A knife is the ultimate soldier, it will follow any order and doesn't care what use it's put to so long as it gets to cut.
"Make sure it's deep," Hillstead says. "I want to see bone when you're done."
Joseph Sands wanted me to touch his face. Peter Hillstead wants me to touch my own, and I am, I am cutting, deep and decisive. The pain is exquisite. The blade is razor-sharp; it slices me open with a yawn, bored, no heavy lifting involved. The line is long and there is blood, lots of it, running down my face. A rivulet runs over my lips. I taste the fine wine of me. The dragon screams.
Hillstead is captivated. That one eye is wide. Taking it all in, drink ing it down. Feeding his needs. I give him a moment to appreciate it.
I point the knife at him. "So? Can I cut Elaina loose?"
His eye is still wide. Blood drips from my chin and the eye follows it.
"So beautiful . . ." he breathes.
Drip, drip, drip. He's captivated by my blood-brook.
"Peter." The eye pulls itself away from my gore, reluctant. "Can I cut her loose?"
A crinkle. He's smiling again. "Well . . ." he says, drawing it out. "No. I don't think so. No."
I fill with despair and contempt at the same time. "So predictable," I say. "If you were going to be original, you would have let Elaina go. Not doing it--that's what I'd expect."
He shrugs. "Can't please everyone."
"You can still please me."
"How?"
"By dying, Peter. By dying."
Bold words, I think, but I'm still afraid of my gun. He laughs. "Fair enough, Smoky. Now we will truly get down to it."
One hand grips the back of Bonnie's neck. The other has the knife, still at her throat. "You gave me what I wanted. Time to end this."
I drop the knife. He follows it as it falls to the floor, clattering. I follow it too, mesmerized by the shine of it, by the slick of my blood on its oh-so-keen edge.
I squint. Cock my head. The voice in my head is back, and it's nearer. I don't look at him as I answer. "How is this going to end, Peter?"
"Why, the only way it can, Smoky. One way, or the other."
I glance at him. I exist on two levels. One part of me looks at Hillstead, listens to him, responds. The other strains, strains, strains to hear the voice.
"What does that mean, 'One way, or the other'?"
The eye crinkles.
"I'm going to cut Bonnie's throat, Smoky. I'm going to count to ten, and then I'm going to slice her from ear to ear, give her a wide, wet, weeping grin. Unless you kill me first, of course." The knife wiggles.
"Whatever happens, in the end, I feel certain you'll shoot me and I will die. So, 'one way'? You shoot me before I get to ten, Bonnie lives. 'Or the other' ?" He glances at my gun hand. "Alexa all over again. Bonnie dies, another daughter lost. You still kill me . . . but too late, too late."
And now I hear the voice.
Mommy.
"All you have to do, Smoky-mine . . ." His head appears. He's grinning. "Is let me help you one last time."
Listen to me, Mommy. You can do it. It's okay. I am emptying out inside. Becoming still, still, still.
"Fuck you."
"I don't think so." He smiles even wider. "Make no mistake about it, Smoky. I'm going to give you ten seconds, and then I'm going to kill her. I'm going to take my knife and slice her pretty little throat wide open. The only chance she has is you taking your shot. Of course, you might miss and kill her, just as you did with Alexa. You might murder another child with your gun."
Blood drips from my face. Bonnie's eyes fill my mind. But it's Alexa who fills my soul.
Everything beautiful about her comes to me. All at once. Every mo ment of seeing her smile, holding her close, smelling her hair. Every tear I ever wiped away, every angel kiss she ever gave me. Memories of her have been coming back to me lately, it's true. But these are ten thousand times more vivid. Ten million times stronger. All gone, gone forever.
"Come on, Special Agent Barrett. I'm counting the seconds down now."
I am swimming in an ocean of tears, and it has no horizon. So, the question once again: Will my hand shake if I point the gun at myself? I could end it that way. Quick. Easy.
An end to the memories. I want that more than anything--to unknow my past.
"You were my Abberline, Smoky. You should be happy--you are the best of the best. No one has caught any of us, dating all the way back to my ancestor. I applaud your ploy with the flesh in the jar. An obvious lie, but I will admit--you made me angry. And catching Robert, well . . . he was sloppy, so I won't call it genius on your part. But you are gifted, Smoky-mine. So very gifted."
I can barely hear him. There is a roaring in my ears, threatening to drown out the world. It's me, pounding my fists against myself until they're bloody. Me, screaming forever. Me, howling and crusing and dying and--
Mommy!
The roaring stops.