He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette lighter. He runs his thumb over the metal wheel; it strikes the flint, a few sparks appear, then a flame. He seems pleased with himself. The look on his damaged face suggests he’s taking all the credit for inventing fire. He walks over to Jo. Her eyes widen and she tries to push herself further into the tree. The miracle of camouflage is no kinder to Jo than it was to Kathy.
“Leave her alone.”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead he picks up the lighter fluid and sprays more of it into my face.
My head starts to pound, and seconds later vomit erupts from my mouth, spraying over my nose and eyes, onto my forehead and into my hair. My nose becomes full of it and the taste consumes my mouth, ridding it, at least, from the taste of lighter fluid. I choke as lumps of digested pasta and coffee flow from me, but pieces get lodged in my mouth and throat and stick beneath my tongue. I wipe my hands at my face and spit out what I can. Cyris pulls himself away and stumbles onto his butt to avoid the mess. He sits there, one hand across his wounded stomach, the other wiping at his face.
I swing in a bigger arc and my limbs come close to breaking. Even though I’m upside down, my hanging jacket isn’t, and vomit starts to pool into the creases and drip into pockets. I can see it pooling in the inside pocket, on top of the Swiss Army knife I bought from Floyd. I think of the game-show host. He tells me if I’m good enough I can still get hold of one of the few remaining prizes up for grabs. He asks me if I’m man enough to do any grabbing.
I pull the jacket closer and reach into the pocket.
“Hey,” Cyris says, and I look over at him. He’s gotten up and walked over to Jo.
He has the KA-BAR knife in his hand. Where in the hell are the police?
“Don’t,” I tell him.
But he does.
He drives the blade deep into her.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
He wants to open Charlie up from sternum to eyeball with the knife, and he’ll do it too, he’ll do it soon, but he’ll open up the bitch first. He can already see how she’ll look with her limbs severed and her face all torn open. The thought does nothing to excite him, nothing at all. The entire process of killing her will be mechanical, but at least it’ll be over.
She’s looking at him, staring at him, her eyes bugging out of her head, and even though she must have known where tonight was going to lead, she looks surprised. He twists the handle in her stomach and he can feel her through it. He can feel her pain as her body moves beneath it. He can feel the blood running down the handle. He can hear Charlie yelling at him and thrashing about on the rope.
He has stabbed her in the same place Charlie stabbed him. It’s not fatal, not yet, but it will be. Already he can feel her life slipping away. The satisfaction he feels is meager. Meeting this woman and meeting Charlie and meeting Frank are the worst things that have ever happened to him. As he takes his hand away and touches the side of his burned face, he knows life will never be the same. He looks into her eyes and he can see her dying, he can see her slipping away. He clamps a hand over her mouth to feel her dying breath against his skin. It gives him strength. It makes the back of his neck tingle, it makes the muscles in his arms and legs quiver, but it doesn’t make the pain go away.
He stares into her eyes. He keeps his hands on her mouth. Her breath against his skin is weak and warm. He steps away. The knife is sticking out of her the same way it stuck out of him on Monday morning. Welcome to my world, bitch.
He turns toward Feldman. Feldman is reaching up toward the rope. He has something in his hand. A pocket knife?
It’s something sharp, because a moment later Feldman is hitting the ground. He’s landed on his front. He’s getting to his feet.
Cyris points the Glock at him.
He has this covered.
He steps forward and uses the zippo to set Charlie on fire.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
The fire is on me and there isn’t a thing I can do about it. There has to be something I can say to stop all of this, to take all of this back, to make it as if it never happened, but it seems. . seems that isn’t going to happen.
The flames chew my jacket, rising hungrily upward, and I reach out to wave them further away from me. Jo is forgotten now, and Kathy and Luciana, and Landry. The fire has taken me to another world, and this world looks a hell of a lot like Hell. I know Hell is other people, but it’s not-it’s just two people, Cyris and me. I flap my arms and pat at the flames, burning my fingers. The handcuffs keep digging into my wrists.
I drop to the ground and start rolling. I tear at the jacket. I manage to pull it upward, sliding it and the fire over my head. It singes my hair and I force my eyes shut as the tears inside them seem to boil. Then the jacket’s off my head and on my arms where I’m able to push it only as far as the handcuffs. I start kicking at it, stomping it into the ground, the flames finding the lighter fluid on my jeans. I push my feet at the jacket. The fire has weakened it enough to tear apart. It leaves me with gloves that have huge tassels on the ends. Tassels of fire. I kick at them, smudging them into the dirt. The technique works and the flames disappear. Red embers flicker from the material.
I get to my feet. Cyris is laughing at me as if I’m the funniest thing in the world. Perhaps I am. But it’s hard to concentrate when you’re laughing, hard to stay focused. He fires the Glock. It’s loud. I don’t feel any pain, but I feel something tugging at my chest. I look down at my vest. My binoculars have been shot. I turn and run. There’s another gunshot, this time another tug, this one somewhere in my back. All that tugging and I lose balance and strength, and I make it a few yards into the darkness before falling over.
Cyris comes in after me. There’s pain in the side of my chest from the impact of my binoculars being shot, and the side of my back hurts from a bullet. Cyris grabs my ankles and starts dragging me.
“I prefer it like this,” he grumbles, but I don’t think he does. I think he preferred back when he hadn’t been stabbed in the stomach or set on fire.
He starts dragging me back the way we came, probably so he can kill me in front of Jo. I dig my fingers into the dirt, looking for something I can use to fight him with. Leaves, twigs, moss, grass-nothing helpful. No branches, no rocks, just a whole lot of nature and. .
My fingers wrap around a cold, solid item, something L-shaped, something heavy and metal with a socket at one end. As I tighten my grip on it, the Real World shimmers and darkens, then darkens some more, but doesn’t disappear.
I’m not going anywhere. Fuck that. Right now, I’m all out of failing.
At the edge of the clearing Cyris lets go and leans down over me.
“I’m going to enjoy this, partner,” he says.
I doubt that he will. I swing the tire iron as hard as I can.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Something hits him hard. An iron bar of some type. It gets him in the jaw. Right in the front of the mouth. It plows through his teeth, turning them sharp and ragged. He feels his burned lips split open. Bits of shattered teeth are stabbed into his gums and tongue. He fires the pistol and knows the bullet goes astray.
Then the same thing hits him again. This time in the side of the head. His head snaps back and his view of the world changes. He can’t help himself, but he lets go of the gun and brings his hands to his mouth, his fingers probing and assessing and trying to repair the damage. He can feel blood rolling down the side of his face. Can feel his mouth filling up with the stuff. He spits some out. Teeth come out with it. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t think he’s anywhere. But if he had to guess-he’d guess this was death.