Maybe Brie had decided that she would tell her sister, Isabel, how she had betrayed her, even though she’d made me promise never to say a word. Brie was going to confess to her sister she’d had sex with Norman.
Norman knew, and had to stop her. He had her killed not only while I was away fishing with Greg, but while he was in Boston with Isabel. The perfect alibi.
It seemed pretty out-there, I admit. But someone had hired Matt to kill Brie, and Norman now seemed the most likely suspect. How else did one explain Norman’s arrival, at this moment, in these woods? The only explanation I could come up with, in that quarter of a second, was that Norman knew what was out here. Knew that Matt had buried Brie here. Knew that Matt was going to bring me here.
Knew Matt, period.
The possible reappearance of Brie — and I still had no idea what that was about — had unnerved Norman, and he’d clearly been in touch with Matt to ask what the hell might have gone wrong six years back.
All that thinking went into that first quarter-second. The next quarter-second was occupied with a more urgent thought.
This might be your only opportunity.
I guess it was more instinct than thought, because what I did at that moment when Matt turned to see who’d called out didn’t require much in the way of planning. I just acted.
I brought that shovel up level, turned that curved blade, with its pointed tip, into a spear, and charged Matt.
He still had the gun in his hand, but it wasn’t pointed in my direction, and when he heard me coming, closing that eight to ten feet between us, he turned back from looking at Norman to look at me, but not in time to aim.
He’d been standing there with his jacket open, and the only thing between his belly and my shovel was a flannel work shirt. And when the blade reached him, it cut through that shirt like it was made of gossamer.
“Fuck!” Matt screamed, stumbling backward as the blade sliced open his belly, creating a jagged, almost smile-like rip in his flesh.
He tripped over his own feet and hit the ground on his right side, the arm holding the gun slamming on the ground. But Matt managed to hold on to his weapon as he put his other hand to his stomach, blood seeping out between his fingers.
My attention was focused on that gun hand. In another half-second, Matt could have it pointed at me. Which was why I needed to pin that arm to the ground and wrestle it away from him.
The adrenaline was racing through me, and I wasn’t about to temper my responses. Which explains, I suppose, why I came down so hard on Matt’s arm with the shovel blade.
I don’t honestly think it had been my intention to cut off his hand.
But I brought that blade down with enough force, and right on target, that when it connected with Matt’s upturned right wrist it went right through and into the forest floor like a cleaver going through pork tenderloin. He’d already been in the process of aiming the weapon my way, but what came up was a forearm minus a hand. A fountain of blood poured forth.
His hand, still gripping the gun, lay there on the dirt.
The scream that Matt let loose was enough to send birds scattering from the trees.
“Jesus!” shouted Norman, who was still a good sixty feet away.
I then did something that, in retrospect, makes no sense whatsoever. Intending to kick the gun away from Matt’s grasp, I booted it, and the hand looped around it, a good six feet away.
His screams persisted. Blood continued to flow from his stomach and the end of his arm. It was the latter that looked more serious.
I heard another scream, and realized very quickly that it was coming from me. A kind of primal cry, some Neanderthal reaction buried deep within me. A cry of triumph, or release. Or maybe I was just losing my mind.
But I couldn’t afford to lose it for long. I hadn’t forgotten my first thoughts, from only seconds earlier, that Norman was in on this. And if that was true, the threat was not over.
I wanted more than a shovel to deal with Norman. And there was that gun right there on the ground. I tossed the shovel, dropped to my knees, and pried the gun from the fingers of the severed hand, all to a background soundtrack of Matt’s incessant cries of pain. That man was going to die if I didn’t make some effort to save him. A tourniquet on that arm.
But that would have to wait. I had Norman to deal with. I got to my feet and pointed the gun at him.
He stopped dead in his tracks and shouted, “Christ, Andrew, it’s me!”
I must have looked like a crazy person to him. Wide-eyed, covered in dirt and now splattered with blood from Matt, and waving a gun around.
“I know who the fuck you are!” I shouted at my one-time brother-in-law. “Stay right there!”
“What the hell’s going on?” he yelled. “Who’s that—”
“Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!” I shouted.
Matt had stopped screaming long enough to crane his head in my direction and say, “I’m gonna fucking die. Help me.”
“How did you know?” I asked Norman.
“How did I know what?”
“How did you find us? How did you know about this place? You knew he’d brought me here, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know anything about this place,” he said, taking steps in my direction.
“Don’t come any closer, Norman,” I warned, pointing the gun at him.
“Andrew, what is it you think I’ve done?” He took another five steps toward me. “That man, who is he?”
“Like you don’t know,” I said. “Why? Why’d you do it?”
“Why’d I do what?” he asked.
“Why’d you hire him? Why’d you hire him to kill Brie?”
Norman’s shocked look was Oscar-worthy. “What the hell are you talking about? Brie may be back! Isabel’s told you. I know that. We saw her, from the hospital.”
“No,” I said. “She’s right back there, in that grave. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
A moaning, dying Matt had turned over to see who I was talking to. He mumbled, “Who the fuck is he?”
That threw me. Either they were both very good at playing their roles, or Norman and this man really did not know one another.
“Tell me,” I said. “How’d you know about this place?”
“I told you, I didn’t,” Norman said. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I tried to call you the other night but you wouldn’t answer. I was driving to your house, saw you drive off, and followed. Then you turned in here and I sat up by the road, waiting for you to come out. It got to be a long time and so I drove in, saw the two cars there. Something about it didn’t look right. I heard some talking in the woods, and started walking this way.”
I blinked several times, trying to get the grit and sweat out of my eyes. What Norman was telling me sounded almost believable.
“You have a phone,” I said.
Norman nodded.
“Call 911,” I said. “Much as I’d like to let this guy die, it might be useful to keep him alive.”
Norman had his phone out, was tapping in the number.
“Get back out to the road, direct them in,” I said.
Norman nodded, turned, and started running back in the direction he’d come from, the phone to his ear.
I knelt down next to Matt.
“You’re losing a lot of blood,” I said. “I don’t know that the paramedics are gonna make it here fast enough. Although, one thing that might help, that would buy you some time, would be a tourniquet.”
Matt, seething between gritted teeth, said, “Yeah, that might.”
“I could take a lace out of my boot,” I said, “and give it to you, but I’m thinking, with one hand, you might have some difficulty applying it yourself. But I could do it for you.”