He needs to focus on that right now.
“For the money,” he shouts, and he thinks that if he keeps saying it out loud more often, it’ll stick with him. That, or he should stop taking the drugs. He should write that one down too.
The cop, Feldman, his bitch wife-they’re all staring up at him. The bitch wife is a surprise. He learned about her when he went through Feldman’s house, but he wasn’t expecting her to be helping him. When he arrived at Feldman’s tonight, he was in time to see the man arrested. Before he could start following the guy, another car pulled out from the curb and began following them first. So he followed the follower. It turned out to be the same woman in the photos in Feldman’s house.
They’re waiting for him to say something else, and he guesses his comment is out of context for them. He should have shouted You fucked up my plans. Actually, that’s not bad. He opens his mouth to say that and cold air rushes down his throat and for a few seconds his mind starts to focus. He has to concentrate now so he can form the words, but maybe he ought to just shoot everybody instead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Cold rain. Cold wind. One psycho with a gun. Then another psycho with a gun.
Is there something here I’m missing?
“You fucked up my plans!” Cyris shouts, which at least makes more sense than his For the money comment a few seconds earlier.
I don’t answer him. Nor does Jo. I don’t even look at Landry to see what he’s doing. Probably not getting ready to apologize, I imagine.
“You remember me, part. . partner?” Cyris asks, moving his aim from Jo to me.
I remember everything while saying nothing.
“What a show,” he says. “I would clap, but my hands are blue.”
He looks at the man I’m carrying and all I can think about are his blue hands. He must mean they’re cold. I guess.
“Caught yourself a pig?” he asks.
Landry starts to moan.
“Put. . down, put him down, down, down,” Cyris says.
I get the point, but I spend a few seconds wondering if I could use Landry as a shield and just run straight at Cyris. I was somewhat successful the other night. Might be the same tonight. Mind reading must be one of his new abilities, because he says “Don’t even think about it.” Then he points the shotgun at Jo.
I crouch and hoist Landry over my head so he lands in front of me, my lower back protesting at the effort. I don’t really try to be gentle, but I make sure he doesn’t land on his head. He might come in useful. I’ve gone from thinking I was going to die, to surviving, to thinking I’m going to die again. If I had to sum it up, I’d say it’s a pretty shitty feeling.
I stand up, but don’t back away. Instead I slowly move toward Jo. Cyris doesn’t ask me to stop. He seems to be enjoying himself. Why wouldn’t he? I’m the only guy out here tonight who hasn’t actually been armed.
When I’m next to Jo he scampers over to the cop and kneels next to him.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he says to Landry. “Funny hah, hah, funny you brought him out here into the summer, funny because you forgot me, forgot all about me.”
“Cyris,” Landry says, and it’s all he can manage, but he says it with a gravelly voice and with conviction, like it’s an accusation.
Jo looks over at me and I can see a whole bunch of things in her eyes. Confusion, sure, there’s plenty of that, and regret too. Regret for not believing me. Sure, she came along for the ride because I dragged her, sure she met me halfway in the Real World of what’s real and what’s make believe, but if she had committed to me, if she had just taken my hand and helped, then things could be different right now. Could be better. Could be worse. I don’t know. Just different. So there’s the confusion and regret, but there’s also regret for hitting Landry so hard because around now he could have been helping us. I feel like she’s just forgiven me, but it will last only until she dies alongside me, which, I figure, will be in only a few seconds. I hope she can forgive me for that too. She aims the flashlight at Landry’s eyes. They’re red. He doesn’t look well at all.
Cyris laughs again, then raises his gun, tracks the barrel up and down Landry’s body, and hovers it over his leg. He narrows the distance, resting the barrel on Landry’s right ankle.
“Pick a limb, pick one, a limb, a limb.”
Landry tries to pull his leg away, but Cyris stands on his foot, then repositions the gun so it touches the policeman’s head. Landry stops moving. The rain is pouring heavily down in our little neck of the woods and small droplets of mud splash onto Landry’s face. They look like chocolate tears. Cyris moves the gun a few inches away from Landry’s head and fires it into the ground.
None of us are expecting the shot, except Cyris, so Cyris is the only one who doesn’t jump. The mouth of the cave seems to swallow a lot of it, but the sound is still enough to feel like my ears are going to start bleeding. Landry starts rolling around, the handcuffs making it difficult for him to push his hands against his ears. He can manage to cover only one ear. The other he pushes into the ground, but to his credit he doesn’t make any sound.
But that’s all about to change. Cyris pumps the shotgun and pushes the barrel into Landry’s leg right behind the kneecap.
“Wait,” I shout out, which is stupid because I don’t owe Landry anything, but at the same time I can’t stand here and watch him get taken apart.
Cyris doesn’t wait. This time when he pulls the trigger, Landry starts screaming right away. The gunshot and his pain echo around us, the gunshot is high-pitched and slowly starts to fade, but the screaming doesn’t. The screaming sounds like it could go on forever. Landry tries to sit up, tries bringing his knee into his belly so he can curl his arms around his leg, but the leg won’t bend because the knee joint is a pile of raw nerves and slivers of bone. I can’t help it, but I stagger back, crouch over, and start to gag. Jo is doing the same thing.
Landry’s concussion has become the least of his worries.
His fate is the least of ours.
Cyris says something, but I can’t hear. The rain steals away his words and my ears are ringing from the gunshot and, aside from that, Landry is still screaming, still pushing his hands against his wounded leg. I feel bad for him. Bad that he’s seen so much in his life and has now become victim to it. He’s become victim to his own anger, but it’s his anger that brought us all out here, so sure, I feel sorry for the guy-but I hate him even more than I feel sorry for him. His screams grate at my eardrums. I wish Cyris would just finish him off. He’s going to-there’s no way any of us is getting out of here alive-so the best we can hope for is a quick death. If anybody wants to be heard over Landry’s screams, they’re going to need to yell at the top of their lungs.
Cyris seems to realize this and he walks over. I stop gagging. So does Jo.
“Who’s next? Which one of you isn’t really real? Huh? I want to know.”
God, he’s crazier than I thought. “Leave her out of it,” I shout.
“Why? She’s the meat and potatoes,” Cyris says.
He moves toward Landry, walking backward so he can keep his eyes on us.
I look at Jo and she looks back. “I’m sorry,” I say. It doesn’t seem enough to offer her, but it’s all I have. I reach out for her hand. She takes it. Her hand is cold and it’s the first time we’ve held hands in a long time, not just six months, but longer than that.
“I figured you would be,” she says. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too. It doesn’t help, though, does it?”