“I saw his eye watching us.”
“But did you see him?”
“I know what you’re going to say—”
“Did you see him?”
“He ran away when I fucking shot at him, Pita. Since when do ghosts run away from bullets? Wouldn’t bullets go straight through them?”
She clamped her mouth shut.
Jesus said, “Maybe you should give the gun to me, Jack.”
“Fuck no,” he said.
“You blew your chance. Give me the gun.”
“Blew my chance?”
“You weren’t prepared! You let him get away!”
“And you’ve been super vigilant sleeping in the fucking bedroom—”
Jesus punched Jack, striking him directly in the nose. There was a sound like knuckles cracking. Jack spun away, dropping the pistol and cupping his nose. He examined his hands, which were bright red with blood. Jesus stood on the balls of his feet, holding his ground, ready to run. Jack charged him. Jesus made for Lucinda’s room. Jack, however, caught him before he could barricade himself inside the room, hefting him off his feet and slamming him to the ground.
Pita leapt on Jack’s back, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“Go to the bedroom!” Elizaveta told Rosa, shooing the girl away.
Rosa fled.
Elizaveta ran into the fray, wrapping her own arms around Pita’s neck and pulling the smaller woman free. Pita shrieked and cursed. Elizaveta tripped and fell, dragging Pita with her.
“Bitch!” Pita yelled, flipping onto her front.
“Calm down!”
Pita didn’t. She was possessed. She snagged fistfuls of Elizaveta’s hair and yanked so hard Elizaveta rocked forward. She clawed blindly at Pita. She grabbed something soft—a breast? She squeezed. Pita screeched, then yanked Elizaveta’s hair harder.
Scalp on fire, Elizaveta got hold of the throat of Pita’s chambray shirt. She tugged with all her strength. Buttons popped. Pita screeched. Her left hand released Elizaveta’s hair and went after her pink top, hooking her fingers around the collar and pulling. Fabric tore with a zipper-like sound.
Elizaveta shouted, more in frustration than anger or embarrassment. They were having a stupid catfight while Solano was outside somewhere. He might return, burst into the cabin wielding his knife while they were all distracted.
Elizaveta brought her knees to her chest and tried using her feet to push Pita away. Pita clutched Elizaveta’s hair with both hands again, shaking as though she were trying to dislodge stubborn weeds from the ground.
Elizaveta kicked. Her foot struck Pita in the gut. Pita’s grip loosened.
Elizaveta kicked again. This time her foot winged Pita’s face.
The bitch finally released her.
Elizaveta tumbled away, the roots of her hair raw with pain. Pita lay on her side, panting, her bottom lip bleeding.
“Jesus!” Elizaveta said, pushing herself to her feet.
Somehow Jesus had gotten the better of Jack, and he now knelt on top of him, his hands around Jack’s throat, strangling him.
He didn’t show any signs of hearing her—or letting up.
The pistol lay on the floor a meter from her. She retrieved it, surprised by its cold, heavy weight. She aimed the barrel at the ceiling and squeezed the trigger.
The report boomed.
Jesus turned his head to look at her. His face was so twisted with hatred she barely recognized him.
“Get off him!” she said.
“Put that down!”
“Get off him!”
“Put—”
Jack bucked Jesus off him and rolled away, wheezing.
Jesus seemed ready to go for him again, while Pita was on all fours, spider-like, ready to come after her.
She fired a second round.
“Stop!” she shouted. “Everybody stop!”
2
Jack crab-scuttled farther away from Jesus. Blood smeared his chin. More blood soaked his tank top on the left side of his abdomen.
Had one of her bullets ricocheted off the ceiling and struck him there?
Elizaveta hurried to him, giving Pita a wide birth.
“Give me that,” he said, holding a hand out for the pistol.
She hesitated only a moment before pressing the gun’s grip into his palm.
He immediately swung the weapon at Jesus, who was bending over, picking up something.
A knife, she realized. A blood-drenched knife.
Had he stabbed Jack?
“Put it down,” Jack told him.
“Put the gun down,” Jesus retorted. The bangs of his usually slicked back hair hung in front of his face. His left shirt tail dangled from his pants. At some point he’d lost a penny loafer; one foot was bare.
“I don’t think so, Jesus.”
“What are you going to do, Jack? Shoot me?”
“I’m pretty tempted right now.”
“Dammit, Jesus,” Elizaveta said. “You stabbed him? Are you crazy?”
“Jesus…?” Pita said, appearing confused. She stood up. Her chambray shirt hung open to her sternum, revealing her breasts in a lacy bra a size too small so it acted like a corset, ballooning her cleavage.
“He attacked me,” Jesus protested. “He was going insane.”
“Where’d you get that knife, Jesus?” Jack asked. He pushed himself to his knees and grimaced, his free hand going to his bleeding abdomen.
Elizaveta helped him the rest of the way to his feet.
“Are you okay?” she asked, worried.
Ignoring her, he said to Jesus: “Where?”
He shrugged. “The kitchen. When you and Pita were outside, on watch.”
“Where in the kitchen?”
“On the counter.”
“Jack, stop pointing that gun,” Pita said. “You’re scaring me.”
Jack ignored her too. “On the counter, huh?”
“So what?” Jesus said.
“Eliza, go see if there’s a knife on the counter.”
Elizaveta crossed the main room, wondering what was going on. Why did it matter where the knife was from? She poked her head in the kitchen, wrinkling her nose at the smell of something rotten. It was dark, no candles lit. Yet her eyes had long ago adjusted to the dim environment, and she could see well enough. A couple of bowls and plates rested on the counter. Next to them was a single fork. No knife.
She returned to the others. “No knife.”
“See?” Jesus said. “Now stop pointing that fucking gun at me, Jack.”
“I saw that knife earlier,” Jack said. “When I was here by myself, when I first found Rosa.”
“So what? I told you—”
“There wasn’t any blood on it.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have attacked me, Jack. It was self-defense.”
“There was blood on it before you stabbed me, Jesus.”
A deep silenced ensured.
“What are you talking about, Jack?” Pita demanded.
Elizaveta frowned, trying to make sense of this. Where did the blood come from if it wasn’t Jack’s—
Her breath hitched in her throat.
“Nitro?” she said so quietly she wasn’t sure she’d spoken out loud.
“Nitro?” Pita repeated, apparently hearing her. “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?”
“Why’d you kill him?” Jack asked Jesus.
“Killed who?” Pita said. “Nitro?”
Jesus chuckled, shaking his head. “Are you listening to yourself, Jack?”
“What’s he talking about, Jesus?” Pita asked him.
“Nothing. He doesn’t know anything. This is bullshit.”
“Why’d you kill him?” Jack repeated.
“Stop it, Jack!” Pita said. “Why are you saying this? Why would Jesus ever want to kill Nitro?” She glanced around the room, as if for answers. Her eyes paused on the empty vodka bottle on the floor, next to Elizaveta’s forgotten garden claw and Jack’s hay h
ook. “You’ve been drinking, Jack. Are you drunk?”
“He’s not drunk,” Elizaveta said.
Pita whirled on her, temper flaring. “Shut up, bitch! Jesus is your boyfriend. You should be on his side. Why are you listening to Jack?”
“Where’s your jacket?” Jack asked Jesus.
He shrugged. “I took it off.”
“Where is it?”
“In the other hut. I didn’t bring it.”
Elizaveta thought back. She couldn’t remember whether he’d worn his tweed jacket to the cabin or not. She’d had much more on her mind this night than trivialities such as clothing.
“Unroll your sleeves,” Jack said.
Jesus had rolled the sleeves of his white button-down shirt to his elbows. “Fuck you, Jack,” he said. “I’ve had enough of this.”
“Me too, Jack,” Pita said, going to Jesus’s side. “You’re acting like a lunatic.”
“Eliza,” Jack said, “check the bedrooms for his blazer.”
“Jack…” Jesus said, taking a step forward.
Jack raised the pistol from Jesus’s chest to his head.
Jesus stopped.
“Eliza, go.”
Elizaveta checked Lucinda’s room first, opening the dresser drawers, peeking beneath the bed. There was no jacket.
She was halfway to Pepper’s room when the door opened. Rosa stood at the threshold, half in shadows, Jesus’s tweed blazer balled against her chest. She had obviously been listening through the door.
“It was in the corner,” she said.
“Give that to me,” Jesus snapped, reaching for her.
She dodged his hand, then dashed across the room.
“Good girl,” Jack said, taking the blazer. He shook it out, then held it up by the collar so everyone could see it.
Blood stained the left sleeve, from cuff to elbow.
3
Elizaveta felt hot and cold at the same time.
Could this be true?
Could Jesus have murdered Nitro?
No—there had to be a more mundane explanation for the blood.
“Let me guess,” Jack said. “You’re left-handed, Jesus?”
Jesus was shaking his head again, looking at the floor. He appeared to be smiling.
“Da,” Elizaveta said. “He is.”
Pita’s saucer eyes bounced back and forth between Jesus and Jack. Finally they settled on Jack. “Why are you doing this, Jack?” she asked him. “You know Jesus wouldn’t kill Nitro. So why are you doing this?”
“He has the murder weapon in his hand, Pita. Nitro’s blood is on his jacket’s sleeve. Maybe I’m wrong. I hope I am. But we’re going to have to let the police figure that out. Jesus—put down the knife.”
Jesus didn’t.
Jack aimed the pistol at his legs. “You have three seconds.”
“Jack!” Pita said.
“One…”
“Jack…” Elizaveta said.
“Two—”
“Okay!” Jesus set the knife on the floor.
“Kick it toward me.”
Jesus hesitated, then kicked the knife. It clattered across the wooden planks, stopping several feet short of Jack. Rosa scooted from behind Jack’s legs, retrieved the weapon, and returned to her refuge behind his legs.
“Tell me this isn’t true, Jesus,” Pita said.
“It’s not. Of course it’s not. It’s bullshit.”
“Then what about the blood…?”
“Jack’s set me up.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Jack said.
“Nitro was my best friend, Pita,” Jesus said. “We were like brothers. I loved the guy. Jack’s the one who hated him.”
“You were outside with him when he was killed!” Jack said. “I was inside. With Eliza and Rosa.”
“It’s true!” Rosa said.
It was true, Elizaveta thought, though her mind was spinning. She was suddenly more confused than ever.
“I’m not saying Jack actually slit Nitro’s throat. But he organized it.” Jesus paused. “He’s working with whoever’s out there in the storm.”
Everyone looked at Jack, Elizaveta included. She didn’t believe Jack put a hit on Nitro. It was absurd.
Wasn’t it?
“Give me a fucking break, Jesus,” Jack said.
“You had the chance to shoot him,” Jesus said. “Whoever was outside watching you guys through that hole. You had a chance to shoot him but you didn’t.”
“And I suppose I murdered Miguel too, huh?”
“I don’t know. Did you? I certainly didn’t.”
“I’m not listening to this shit.” He wiggled the pistol at Jesus. “Get on your knees.”
“Jack,” Pita said. “I think you need to put down the gun.”
“Get to your knees!”
“Jack, stop it!” Pita said.
“You hated Nitro!” Jesus shouted. “You set this up! You killed him!”
“I didn’t even know he was coming until this fucking morning!”
“Give me the gun, Jack.”
“Get to your knees!”
“Jack!” Pita screeched.
“Eliza,” Jack said. “Go get me Pepper’s belt.”
“His belt? Why?” she asked. The air was thick with confusion. She didn’t know what was going on, who to believe.
“I’m going to tie Jesus up.”
“Eliza,” Jesus said. “Don’t listen to him.”
She glanced from Jack to Jesus, frozen with indecision.
Rosa bolted to the bedroom, returning a moment later with Pepper’s purple belt.
“Pita,” Jack said, “move away from your brother.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Move, or I swear to God I’ll put a bullet in his knee.”
Glowering, she moved away a few steps.
“Get down,” Jack told Jesus, approaching him cautiously.
“You won’t get away with this,” he said.
“Get down!”
Jesus lowered himself to his knees.
“Put your arms out, wrists together.”
“Fuck you.”
Jack pistol-whipped him on the temple, though not very hard.
“Ow!” Jesus said.
“Jack!” Pita said.
“Do it!”
Jesus put his arms out.
“Rosa, you’re going to need to—”
“No,” Elizaveta said, getting hold of herself. She had to pick a side, and she knew in her heart Jack didn’t have anything to do with Nitro’s murder. “I will.”
She took the belt from Rosa, then went to Jesus and bound his wrists together. She could feel Pita’s eyes into her.
“Is it tight?” Jack asked.
“Yes.”
Jack pressed his foot against Jesus’s chest and pushed him, so he toppled backward onto his butt. “Stay,” he said.
Jack
1
Rosa and Elizaveta and I sat against one wall inside the cabin, Jesus and Pita against another. I set the pistol on the floor next to me and peeled off my tank top. The knife wound was far to the left of my navel, deeper than it was wide. I could barely see the laceration beneath the fresh-flowing blood, but I could feel my heartbeat in it, steady and slow, an unwelcomed reminder of my mortality.
The stabbing played over again in my head, step by step. I’d prevented Jesus from escaping to one of the bedrooms and tossed him to the floor. Pita leapt on my back. Elizaveta pried her away. I hiked Jesus up by the collar of his shirt and slammed him into the wall. I slammed him a second time and heard Pita and Elizaveta scuffling behind me. I turned to check on them. That’s when Jesus withdrew the knife from beneath his shirt and slid it into my side. I didn’t feel any pain; I was too keyed up on adrenaline. But my first thoughts were: He stabbed me. The fucker stabbed me. I looked down, saw the blood, and stepped away from him. I figured the fight was over, but Jesus came at me, throwing his weight into me and knocking me down, knocking the pistol fro
m my grip. Then he was on top of me, his hands around my throat, squeezing. My vision blurred, spun—then the gunshot. Jesus released my throat, and I bucked him off me to find Pita on her side with a bloody lip and Elizaveta standing a few yards away, holding the gun in her shaking hands.
“This is not good, Jack,” Elizaveta said. She was kneeling next to me, examining the wound. Rosa stood by her, a serious expression on her face.
“Nice bedside manner,” I said.
“What does that mean?”
I shook my head. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“It looks bad.”
“It doesn’t even hurt very much.”
“Maybe you’re in shock.”
“I’m not in shock.”
“Maybe you are bleeding inside.”
“Seriously, Eliza, knock it off.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“It doesn’t look very bad, Jack,” Rosa said.
“Thank you, Rosa.”
“It really doesn’t,” she added. “I cut my knee once, and it bled almost as much. But I didn’t even have to go to the doctor’s office. My mom just rinsed it with water, put some stuff on it that stung, and then a bandage.”
“Do you have any vital organs in your knee?” Elizaveta asked her.
“What’s a vital organ?”
I folded my tank top into a square and pressed it against the cut. I hissed with pain and closed my eyes. I could feel the shirt turn spongy with blood. When I opened my eyes, I was looking across the room. Pita was in front of Jesus, trying to free his hands. I snatched the pistol from the floor and pointed it at them.
“Get away from him!” I said.
Elizaveta and Rosa spun to look.
Pita and Jesus stiffened, both appearing very suspect.
“Move away from him, Pita.”
“Why?” she said. “We were just talking.”
“You were removing the belt.”
“I was not.”
“I saw you! Now move away from him.”
“Or what, Jack?” Jesus said. “You going to call your accomplice? Have us killed too?”
“He’ll beat you up!” Rosa said.
“Getting seven year olds to fight your fights, are you now, Jack?”
“I’m eight,” Rosa said defiantly.
“Pita, last warning,” I said. “Move away from him.”
World's Scariest Places: Volume Two Page 46