I know what I have to do. It will be humane if it comes from me, I know that. It will be more humane if I just kill the dog now. But in the moment I decide this, he looks at me with his golden eyes, and there is so much love and trust in them that I just can’t. And I don’t. And Atwater sees all of this and laughs.
“I sort of love you for this, you know?”
I close my eyes.
“I love you for being predictable in this way. And for your love. Not everyone has that. But I knew you would. You are so filled with love.” He is so pleased with himself. So smug. And I try to think about a way out of this dilemma. And I can’t. And I try to deny his words. Filled with love. How can that be? Yet that resonates, too, even if it’s something I hadn’t known.
I raise the gun. Take careful aim. I know what I risk, but I also know it can’t be any other way. The trade that’s demanded of me is necessary. It’s not the answer I want, but it’s the only answer that can be. Atwater simply must die.
It’s like the killer sees the decision and knows, suddenly, that he’s lost the round. He drops the chain and lunges toward me. The shot goes off, goes wide as Atwater’s fist impacts with my jaw.
And then everything goes dark.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
WHEN I OPEN my eyes, I see nothing at all. I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but I think it can’t have been that long because no light comes in the window. Unless there’s been a full circle of the sun since I lost consciousness, but I don’t think so.
Even though it’s you-can’t-see-the-hand-in-front-of-your-face dark, I know I am on a bed. I feel the give of a musty mattress and warmth from a surface that absorbs heat rather than reflecting it back.
Despite everything, though, and against all reason, I know I am not alone. There is another presence in the room. I can’t see anything and I don’t hear any telltale signs. But I know.
I lie there silently for a slot of time that feels longer than it could possibly be. Five minutes? Less. I lie there, feeling the darkness. Reaching into it with my mind and my ears. Even while I wonder how it’s possible, I know what I know and I keep my breathing deep and even, understanding instinctively that a change in my state will tip my hand.
I remember then and I wonder about the dog. My heart fills with concern for him. And then I remember to be concerned, also, for myself. It’s then that I hear the slight and even breathing of another creature. Another human, I’m certain. But so quiet, it almost isn’t there.
I think about my options, willing myself to remain calm. I am still breathing long and slow, conscious not to alter my outside state. Inside, though, I am seething with questions and the beginnings of plans. It is my nature to plan. To question. Without that, I know instinctively, I am lost.
I wonder if I am tethered. To test it, I pull ever so slightly on my hands and feet. Somehow that small movement alerts him.
“You’re awake.” The voice reaches into the darkness. It is so quiet; I must strain to hear. It is modulated for the middle of the night and I wonder if he knew I was awake before he heard something, or if he just got tired of watching and waiting.
“The dog. Is he okay?” I surprise myself by having this be the first thing I say. I didn’t even know I really liked the dog very much, and here I am asking about him. Which sort of figures somehow, when I think about it.
“Sure. He’s fine.” I hear the sound of a foot connecting with fur-padded flesh. I hear a yelp. “See?” I tell myself not to ask about the dog again.
“I could tell you were awake by your breathing. Isn’t it funny how we always can?”
“We have to stop meeting like this,” I croak, fighting for composure. Fighting to sound strong and unafraid.
He laughs, like we’re at a cocktail party and I’ve told a funny joke. I am not unbiased, but the mirth seems to have an unhealthy sound.
“It’s fate, I think. You and I, we have things to talk about, don’t we?”
“I … I wasn’t aware.”
“I’m not sure that’s true.”
“Sorry?”
“You know.” He sounds confident. “You know we have things to talk about.”
I take a deep breath. Send calming energy to my limbs. When I think about it, I do know what he means. The stuff we’d talked about in the RV. But then he had been bound, in my power, under my influence. Things are different now.
As though to illustrate this thought, he turns on the light. Backlit above me, haloed by the room’s overhead light, his face seems larger than life. Something out of a nightmare or a horror movie. My fear had been passive and general before. It gallops away like a wild thing now.
“You look so frightened.”
His voice is soft. A caress. And my blood slows. I can feel it creeping through my veins. I have researched him. Have seen his handiwork. The only thing I feel for certain: this situation that we are currently in, he and I? It does not end well. For me. I’ve seen photographic evidence of the outcomes of similar situations. There is no upside to hope for.
“It would be dumb for me not to be frightened; don’t you think?” The words themselves are confident. But the delivery is not. I can hear the shake in my own voice. Leaf in wind. It has no strength, and the resilience? It is sapped away. I am as afraid as I have ever been in my life. Though I am not afraid to die. I am afraid of what he will do to me between now and the time that he kills me. I am afraid I won’t die soon enough.
He smiles then. And again, that smile is warm, almost loving. A part of me wants to cry, to scream. But I don’t. I know that, if I am to survive, I have to get to a different place. What makes this more difficult is knowing that, even if I achieve that higher ground, it might not gain anything for me. In the end.
“Are you afraid?” I ask, pleased when my voice sounds stronger than it felt when it was inside me, before it emerged into the air.
He looks at me. Cocks his head to one side, as though he is listening. As though he is a big, bloodthirsty dog. I can almost see his fangs.
“Me? Why would I be afraid? I’m standing. You are in my power.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” he affirms. “Quite.”
I try to analyze his expression, because it’s a new one to me. It is one part righteous indignation, one part puzzlement, one part frightened child. I’ve hit a nerve, but I don’t allow hope. I have a long way to go.
I close my eyes, force stillness, force peace. It is one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I want to cry and scream. Hide. But there’s no place for it.
There is silence between us for a while. I hear him shuffle restlessly above me. He is standing there, still. I don’t have to look to be certain.
I hear a ruffle of wind on shutters. I hear night insects, making a certain type of chatter. I hear him—gently, gently—transfer his weight from one foot to the other. And then back. I listen, but I don’t hear anything from the dog. I try not to be concerned, but I am.
“What are you doing?” he says after a while.
I take a full minute to formulate an answer. And then, unhurried, though that is difficult, too. “It’s been difficult. Coming out here. Following you. Finding you. I’m tired. I am resting.”
“Why aren’t you afraid?” Another shuffle, shuffle. And, maybe—faintly?—panting from the dog. I hope so.
And, of course, I am afraid, but I am gratified that it does not show.
“Should I be?”
He looks at me. Just looks at me, straight on. I think he might say something, but then he seems to change his mind. He takes half a step back and squeezes his eyes shut. Opens them. “I am tired now,” he says finally. “I have to sleep.” He still hasn’t answered me and his exhaustion seems to have come on quickly. I don’t know what any of it means. Is it loss of blood, I wonder hopefully. Or some malaise of spirit that drains him suddenly. I don’t ask. Instead, I nod, as though I am less concerned and less curious than I am. As though I understand fully where his words might le
ad, though I don’t.
There is an inexplicable moment where I wonder if he will lie down next to me and I fight a frightened revulsion. But then he nods again, seems to struggle with himself, then shuffles out the door.
I have this amazing moment filled with the inexplicable feeling of freedom. He will sleep and I will slip away. I breathe to calm myself. In a very little while, all of this will be behind me. I can almost feel the bullet I will kill him with: the force of it leaving the Bersa. The finishing of the job I should have completed when I had the chance. I am one stop from ebullience.
My excitement is short-lived. Before I can collect myself, he is back. The leg irons in his hand. There seems to be no escaping them. They look like the same ones I put on him in the RV, but I know that can’t be right. The same ones, more recently, he had around the neck of the dog. I feel a coldness creep over me.
He tosses them in my direction. Stands at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed.
“You know what to do,” he says. And it is then that I realize this is going to be a dance. He has every move planned. This is just the first one.
He isn’t holding a gun, as I had been, but he is much larger than I am and not unpracticed with his hands. We both know that’s enough.
I attach the irons as instructed, trying while I do so to stay alert to see if I can do it some half-assed way so I can free myself after a while. But there will be no easy out, not with him standing there watching me carefully. There can be no shortcuts.
When I’m finished, he secures the irons to the bed, then leaves without another word, looking as exhausted as he claimed he was. He seems to sway on his feet. I know it isn’t true, but he appears to be barely able to stand; exhaustion pours off him in waves. He stumbles out the door, and I know I’ll be alone for a while.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I LIE THERE, unmoving. Something is happening. I can feel it.
I lie there, feeling the beat of my heart, the blood in my veins. Praying for a stillness of hand, of spirit. Praying for strength to see this thing all the way through.
Whatever that means.
The dog creeps to the side of the bed, licks my hand. I am relieved to see he appears to be fine. It was what I had hoped. I’d heard him cry out, but I hadn’t heard anything crack or break. And, yes: to my eyes the dog appears to be okay. For the moment, at least.
“Poor pup,” I whisper while I scratch behind his ears. “Poor little guy.” He seems almost to swoon with the pleasure of the attention. I think back to the day I got him, his fat little puppy body wiggling up to his young master, dead on his own stoop. Should I have left the pup there? It would have spared him all of this, whatever this might be. Dogs are such simple things, really. I wish for some of that simplicity for myself. I wish for something to be easy. I don’t know what that looks like anymore. Easy. I’ve lost the ability even to wish for it.
The dog settles down next to the bed and then there is nothing but waiting. Waiting for what? At first, I am not sure.
I don’t know how far away Atwater’s resting place is, but I don’t take any chances. Before I do anything that will make noise, I give him the chance to fall asleep.
Once I’m as certain as I can be that he is no longer awake, I explore as far as my shackles will allow. It isn’t far. I can reach the nightstands. I look inside them to see if there is anything of use, but there is nothing. I find a notebook and a pen, and while I’ve been told that the pen is mightier than the sword, I’m certain that reasoning won’t work here.
I can’t quite reach the dresser, but I figure that, even if I could, there would be nothing very helpful in there. The room looks as though no one has lived here for years. There’s a small crack at the edge of the mirror over the vanity. Cracks on the wall. A couple of the dresser drawers are open—gaping—and the closet door is open, showing a whole lot of nothing inside.
I turn my attention back to the nightstand closest to me. Nothing in it, but then I get the idea to think about the things that are on top of the nightstand, including the unremarkable lamp that is the room’s only source of light.
The lamp has a flat metal base. The simple shade is held aloft by a thin pole made of the same stuff. I realize I am viewing it as a potential weapon. It is not ideal, but it is all I have. Necessity, mother of invention and so on.
I stretch my arm out as far as I can, but even in that position, I can just rest my fingertips against the cold metal base. This is somehow worse than not being able to touch it at all. Like a tease.
I stretch further, but that really doesn’t do anything but strain my muscles and I have this moment of a frustration so pure, I just want to relax into myself and cry. But I don’t cry, if for no reason beyond the fact that I don’t want to make a sound that might wake or alert him. I don’t even want to disturb the dog. So I take the largest silent breath I can and forge on.
When it occurs to me to use my pillow as a tool to bring the lamp closer to me, it seems so obvious I am at a complete loss to see how I didn’t think of it sooner. The pillow is awkward and not particularly firm, but I finally manage to use it to push the lamp ahead just enough that I can get my fist all the way around that firm, cold base. The simple act fills me with a feeling of pure accomplishment.
Once I have the stalk of the lamp firmly in my grip, I exhale for what feels like the first time in a half hour. The deep breath fills my lungs intoxicatingly. I am perspiring from my exertions and, once again, I feel like crying, but this time in relief. The dog senses my energy and looks up at me. His tail thumps dully on the floor until he subsides back into sleep.
So I lie there for a while, the lamp still in my grasp, but out of sight on the far side of the bed. I don’t know how long I’ll have to wait like that, but I’m presuming it will be a while. Atwater had looked all in: he’ll sleep for hours, and I know I can’t maintain this position for that long. Finally, I think to stash the lamp under the pillow, where I can get to it easily, but where it can’t be seen.
Now I am tired, too, but I don’t dare sleep. I might only get one chance at this, so I know I have to stay ready. Everything is balancing on it. I know what I’m dealing with; I have an idea of the future Atwater has envisioned for me. There is no future at all if I fail. There will be no do-overs and there is no second chance.
Time drags, though I can’t watch it go by. My phone was in my purse with the gun. I can’t see the purse in the room and I don’t know what he’s done with my things. Without my phone, I don’t know what time it is. And without that solid input of information on the passage of time, my mind reels around, reaching fruitlessly for proper information.
Staying there so still, I fight desperately against the stress sleep that keeps trying to claim me while pondering the squirrel brain of mine that’s developed over the last few years, so keyed on my smartphone that I suddenly realize it’s become difficult to think without it. This is the first time I’ve had that thought in a serious way. But after only an hour—or maybe it is two. I can’t tell!—I feel a sort of easing from it. A freeing. The feeling is like a spell breaking. And I laugh to myself. I’d broken the smartphone habit, cold turkey. All it had taken was to have a serial killer chain me to a bed.
After a while, the darkness outside recedes and the hint of light drips through the window. Dawn. But after that, I slip back into a slurry of minutes and hours of enforced peace and it all ceases to make sense again. My new normal.
I journey like this for a long time. Hours. Minutes. Maybe it is even days. Time has ceased to have meaning for me. I fight sleep with everything I have and then, suddenly, everything I have is not enough and it wins. It is not a deep sleep. My worry has kept me skating near the edge of consciousness, ever aware that I have only one move. I am dealing with someone who has actually flayed people. And so much more. If my one gambit fails, I won’t get another try.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
IN THE END, his footsteps on the floorboards are what wake me.
> “How did you sleep?” he asks. He sounds like a concerned Airbnb host and I get a ludicrous vision of him making me fresh-squeezed orange juice with maybe a scone and offering up directions and suggestions to the local sights.
“What time is it?”
“Does it matter?”
I realize he is right: it does not.
“It’s funny how we key on things. Time. And the passage of it.” I marvel again at the calm sound of my voice. To my ears, anyway, it sounds clear and strong. The exact opposite of how I feel. I can see he notes the sound, too. He doesn’t arch an eyebrow at me, but the effect on his face is the same. He regards me in silence with an expression I can’t quite make out. It might be admiration, but it might be something else, too. I know I don’t want to overestimate my position, which really couldn’t be much worse. That’s what I hope, anyway. I hope it doesn’t go downhill from here. I have to hope that.
“You look very comfortable,” he says again, still with an expression I can’t read.
“I have been more so,” I say like I’m admitting something.
I am aware of everything. The beating of my heart and the pulse at my brow. The lump that the lamp might be making under the pillow. The telltale cord following the lamp out of the bed, potentially sticking out like the tail of a puppy, though I can’t gauge that from where I am. Any one of those things, as well as others I have not considered, might give me away. So I pray for luck to be with me. I pray like I still have a god and hope for an answer. I pray. It’s all I’ve got.
“I’m feeling unwell,” I say.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Maybe … maybe a fever? I can’t tell. But I feel like I might throw up.”
He looks at me without saying anything for maybe half a minute. And then: “It doesn’t matter.”
I meet his eyes. “I know,” I say.
He sighs then. It’s a response I might find comical if this were a different sort of event. But he sighs as though he has resigned himself to something, then he approaches me, drops his hand on my forehead as though he is checking my brow for a fever.
Endings Page 22
