The picnic table , he thought. Its dark shape was suddenly before him. He almost banged into it but managed to slow in time to drop to his knees and scurry under it, carefully avoiding where he'd secured the stake. He groaned as Carl's blade sliced across his back. But he forced himself to keep crawling, sensing Carl leaning fiercely under the table to stab him.
Something made a grotesque, liquid, popping sound. Carl's scream communicated sanity-threatening pain. Cavanaugh tightened his grip on the club. Rising beyond the table, he swung over it, aiming toward Carl, who twisted in a frenzy, his left hand clutching his left eye.
The club whistled past Carl, who now did an amazing thing, the one mistake an experienced knife fighter never makes. Don't throw your knife at your enemy. You might miss, and then you're without your weapon. But in this case, it wasn't a mistake. At so close a range that the sounds Cavanaugh made guided Carl's aim, relying on surprise, Carl threw the knife. Hurled it with all his might. Cavanaugh wailed from the pain of the knife striking his ribs, chipping bone. The only thing that saved him was that the blade was upright and didn't slip between ribs to puncture his ribs or his heart.
Nonetheless, he felt dizzy, in shock from blood loss. Gasping, he wavered. He fumbled, trying to find where the knife dropped, but Carl was suddenly on him, knocking him to the sand, his fingers around his throat, squeezing.
Blood dripped from Carl's missing eye onto Cavanaugh's face.
"Want to make a bet, Aaron?"
Wheezing, Cavanaugh grabbed a handful of dirt from under the table and threw it at Carl's bleeding eye socket.
Carl hissed as if the dirt were hot coals. But his hands remained firm on Cavanaugh's throat.
Flesh separating on his sliced back, Cavanaugh reached painfully up to shove a thumb into Carl's empty eye socket. He actually got it in, feeling blood stream down his thumb. But before he could probe, his hand sank, his mind swirling, Carl squeezing harder.
Carl's head jerked up, his remaining eye scanning the fog. Distant footsteps ran across the invisible soccer field.
"You still can't do this without help, huh?" He leaned down, so close that he breathed against Cavanaugh's left ear. "I bet your friends never find either of us."
As Cavanaugh's mind swirled faster, Carl's last words echoed and faded.
Chapter 37.
Running toward the park, Jamie and Rutherford heard a shout. Reaching the grass, they heard a scream. Charging across a fog-shrouded field, they heard another. Instinctively, they knew when they were close enough that they needed to slow their frantic pace or risk giving away their position in the dark and being shot.
Pistols aimed, they shifted carefully toward the last sound they'd heard.
Chapter 38.
Cavanaugh woke in darkness. Not the darkness of the night and the fog in which there'd been gradations of blackness and shadow. This was absolute darkness, made worse by foul air and the press of Carl's body against him. His neck felt swollen, the inside of his throat burning from having been choked. His sliced back felt on fire, blood streaming from it, making his mind swirl again. His wounded side throbbed. He almost vomited. It took him several moments before he overcame panic sufficiently to realize that he and Carl lay on their left sides, Carl's chest against his back. He felt Carl's labored breathing against his neck.
"Awake, Aaron?" Carl whispered.
Cavanaugh felt breath against his ear. He didn't respond.
"Sure, you are," Carl said. "I feel your heart beating faster."
Cavanaugh didn't see a point in pretending any longer. "Where are we?" The words stung his irritated throat.
"Home, sweet home. Check out the expert workmanship. Feel the fine wood."
Cavanaugh's arms were pinned along his side. The narrow space, which increasingly reminded him of a coffin, made it impossible for him to touch what he now identified as wood against his cheek (a floor) and against his forehead (a wall).
Carl's right arm was free. In the absolute darkness, he reached over Cavanaugh and tapped the wood, causing a muffled echo. "The best plywood available on the junk heap of a construction site. A sheet of plastic's above the roof so water can't seep in. Comfy, huh? Just the thing for spending a couple of days and nights. Of course, I didn't plan for company. When I was the only occupant, I had room to drink from a water bottle and eat beef jerky. Not too much, of course, because I didn't want to foul my dream house with more piss and crap than was necessary."
Cavanaugh almost threw up.
"So relax. We'll find out if I win my bet. But I'm sorry to say, this is going to be a one-sided conversation from now on. You might try to shout and attract your friends. There's an air hole above my head. I can't take the chance they'd hear you. Open your mouth."
Cavanaugh didn't. In the darkness, he felt something sting his neck. The point of a blade.
"I picked up my knife before I carried you here. Open your mouth, or else I'll slice the artery in your neck."
Cavanaugh obeyed. He felt a gritty, musty rag being shoved into his mouth.
"I hope you don't have asthma," Carl whispered. "I wouldn't want you to suffocate. So here we are, snug as two bugs in a rug. How do you suppose we should pass the time?"
Behind him, Carl's voice was so soft that Cavanaugh could barely hear it. His hushed breath drifted past Cavanaugh's ear.
"Why don't I give you a little lesson? You know the old saying, 'You can't pick your family, but you can pick your friends.' Isn't that the truth? If only Lance had been my father. Wouldn't that have been great? Me and the old man making knives. As for friends, well, most people throw that word around. What they really mean is 'acquaintances'. They mean people they spend time with because they happen to live next to each other or work together or play sports with each other or belong to the same club or whatever. People who don't make trouble. People who don't ask for much, who don't inconvenience them.
"But a true friend, Aaron. That's rare and special. A friend is somebody who accepts your faults, who's there for you always, even when you're not your best, somebody who'll do anything for you, somebody you can count on totally, just as a friend can count on you . It's the most powerful relationship there is. Most marriages don't come close, because in a lot of marriages the partners aren't really friends.
"I chose you as my friend, Aaron. My only friend. I never felt closer to anyone. There isn't anything I wouldn't have done for you. Imagine how I felt when I realized that you weren't my friend, that you were just another self-centered asshole who said adios when the going got rough."