I keep looking out the window, trying to figure out where we’re going-as if it actually matters, as if the location is the relevant point here and not the fact that Landry is crazy. Twenty minutes pass silently. Landry keeps the same pace. I’m hoping he’s using the miles we’re putting between us and the city to good use, that he’s thinking things over and coming to the conclusion that he needs to turn around and take me back into the city. I need a lawyer. I need my chance to explain things. The hum of the motor and the slight clinking coming from my handcuffs are the only sound. I can’t lean back because the pull on my wrists is too strong. My lower back starts to get sore. The first drops of rain splash lightly on the roof, slowly at first, then it picks up until it becomes a constant thick patter. Landry turns on the wipers-wubwud, wubwud.
Another twenty minutes go by and all I’m looking at are black hills. My back gets sorer. I get more scared. I want to say something, but I’m convinced if I try I won’t even get the trial he’s planning. It may be crazy, but that trial is still the only chance I have.
We hit the hour mark. Are we ever going to stop? The rain is really heavy now. Ninety minutes and it’s just long, straight roads and no car lights ahead or behind us and I desperately need to take a leak. I close my eyes and ride it out in silence. It’s all I can do. The tires start bumping over a gravel road and we come to a skidding halt. Landry steps out, shifting the weight of the car so it bounces up slightly. He moves into the path of the headlights where he swings open a chain-link fence. I can hear its hinges squeak over the noise of the rain. They sound like a coffin lid being pried open. I have large, red indentations around my wrists visible under the car’s interior light. As the skin swells the cuffs get tighter.
Landry comes back. There is water dripping from his jacket and ears. He glares at me, a look that suggests I’m to blame for everything that’s ever gone wrong in the world. He puts his seatbelt back on. We roll forward. He doesn’t close the gate behind him. The gravel peters out as the surface becomes dirt. The back wheels spin occasionally as they fail to find traction in the mud. The driveway becomes bumpier and painful because every small bounce is amplified through my wrists. We only drive five minutes before we come to another stop. He kills the engine. I can hear rain and I can hear each of us breathing. The headlights shine over the trees ahead of us. The dashboard lights shine over Landry, making his skin look orange. I peer out the window to my left. Only darkness. To my right is the same.
Landry turns off the lights. We’re in complete darkness. He opens the door and the interior light comes on, making it difficult for me to look outside as my reflection continually gets in the way. He gets out and lets the door close behind him, but it doesn’t latch, so the light stays on. I stare at my reflection as if it’s another person who can help me, but it’s only somebody else who’s letting me down. Landry disappears. I keep glancing at my watch as if time is suddenly my greatest ally. My ass is sore, my back is throbbing, and my neck is stiff. My arms and legs are cramping, especially my shoulders. My headache is back. I have the urge to cry. I have the urge to scream at the world and tell it that it’s not playing fair.
I wonder how far from the Garden City we’ve come. Out here it’s just one huge garden. Miles of it. It’s as if God created too many trees for Eden and dumped the surplus. Landry pops open the trunk. A jangle of keys, a few thuds and bangs, and then it’s slammed shut. Then nothing for about five minutes. He’s carrying a flashlight and I watch it light up the area as he’s walking. There’s a structure out there to the left, some kind of shack, but I can’t see any detail because of the reflection inside the car. He walks up the porch steps and goes inside, and then all I can see is a glowing light from behind glass. I stare at it, but it doesn’t move. He’s resting the flashlight on something. I pull at the handcuffs. I pull at the handgrip they’re attached to. I put my feet into the side of the door and use all my strength. It’s no good.
The glow of the flashlight moves again. Landry comes back out. He opens my door, leans in, and undoes one set of handcuffs. They dangle from the handgrip. He throws the keys for the remaining cuffs at my feet.
“Don’t waste my time, Feldman.”
He stands a few yards from the car. Rain pours around him, but he doesn’t seem to care. He has the air of a man who knows not to bother trying to stay dry because he plans on spending more time getting wet. He’s watching me with the barrel of a shotgun. I’m not sure where his handgun is.
The handcuffs are difficult to unlock. My hands are sore and my fingers are shaking. Rain is blowing into the car and I blink away what to Landry must look like tears. Finally I manage to get the key into the small slot, then both hands are free. I almost faint with relief.
The shotgun touches my cheek. The barrel is steel and as cold as ice. I stop dead. My blood drains into the balls of my feet.
“Grab a cuff from the handgrip, Feldman, and put it back on.”
I don’t even try to argue it. It’s hard undoing it, but I get there. Then I wrap one bracelet around my wrist and do it up. Then the other.
“Don’t hold back now, Feldman. Make sure they’re nice and tight.”
I look around as I tighten the cuffs. There’s no help here. I try not to grimace as the metal bites into the bones of my wrists.
“Keys?”
The barrel is still touching my face as I flick the keys to the edge of the seat. Holding the weapon in one arm he lowers himself and, keeping his eyes on me, reaches for them. I watch them disappear into a pocket and only now do I realize he’s changed out of his cheap suit into jeans, a flannel shirt, and a dark jacket. He’s wearing a cap that says Kiss the Cook. The rain hits the brim and rolls off the edges. His loafers have been replaced with hiking boots. He’s also wearing leather gloves.
“Come on out and don’t try anything funny, Feldman. I don’t have the patience for any trouble.”
I slowly climb from the car. On legs shaking from near cramp, cold, and terror, I stand and step forward. To my left I can hear a river.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asks.
“Not as much as you.”
In a blistering movement I’m on the ground, my eyes swimming in their sockets, bright lights circling them. I manage to look up at Landry, but struggle to focus on him. What I can see is the shotgun in his hand, the butt facing me, and through a mind drowning in red-hot pain I slowly understand the connection. I manage to stay on my knees for a few more seconds before spilling onto my side. My jaw is throbbing. I think I’ll lie here forever. Before I get the chance he drags me to my feet and props me against the car. He slaps me around the face, hard, as though this is going to help me think straight.
“Okay, Mr. Smartmouth, neither of us wants that to happen again, and it won’t, as long as you cooperate and stop being such a smart prick.”
My eyes are struggling to focus and it feels like I’m trying to tune his words in from far away, but yeah, I get his point. He grabs a handful of my hair and shoves my head backward.
“Do you understand?”
My ears hurt and I slowly nod, not wanting him to scream again. The motion is nearly enough to make me vomit.
He steps back and tracks me with the weapon. “Now step forward.”
I stumble forward.
“Behind you is a cabin. It’s probably not up to your expectations, but it won’t kill you. We’re going to walk over there and you’re going to make your way inside. Just keep in mind that this is a Mossberg pump-action shotgun, Mr. Smartmouth. . ” He pauses. “Can I call you Mr. Smartmouth?”
I nod and it hurts.
“Just keep thinking about the shotgun. Keep thinking about what it can do to you. Now hurry up, or are you waiting for an invitation?”