by Blake Crouch
That was his skin.
“Grafts. Prick named Lanz told me to limit my movement, or they wouldn’t take hold. Guess he wasn’t kidding.”
“Cool. Is this, ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?’ I’ll play.”
Lucy pulled a pair of surgical scissors out of her scrubs and snipped a tiny cut into the bandage of her right leg. She pulled back a piece of black foam while Donaldson took a quick glance at the car in the distance. It hadn’t moved.
“I have to warn you,” Lucy said. “I haven’t had the skin grafts yet.”
Her shinbone shone through a hole below her knee.
Donaldson seemed mesmerized by the wound.
“I had to go off my morphine to escape. They gave me a nerve block shot in my spine, but it’s wearing off. The pain is…spectacular.”
Donaldson couldn’t take his eyes off her leg. Lucy folded the bandage back, grimacing as she pressed the adhesive into another filthy bandage in an attempt to make it stick.
“You’re full of shit.”
“Huh?”
“You can’t feel a damn thing. You’re paralyzed, aren’t you?”
“We aren’t safe in here, D. We need to do something. Now.”
“Do what, little girl? I can barely walk and I only got one good arm. And I bet you can’t walk at all. We’re outta gas in the middle of bumblefuck.”
“So we just wait?”
“This guy wants something. Eventually, he’ll show us what it is.”
They waited.
No one moved.
“You said you killed a hundred and thirty people?” Lucy asked.
“Yeah.”
“I killed twenty-nine. One for every year I’ve lived.”
“I admire a woman with pluck.”
“We’ve both been on the news. People knew we were at that hospital.”
Donaldson’s face scrunched up. “What are you saying?”
“Maybe one of our victims has family. Family who are pissed off.”
Through the windshield, they watched the driver side door of that car swing open.
A dark figure stepped out.
“Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Donaldson said.
The driver was tall and thin. He stood for a moment next to his car, a waxing gibbous moon behind him, the Honda’s headlights washing out his features.
Then he began to walk toward them, his black boots kicking up little spirals of dust in his wake.
“Want to hand me those scissors?” Donaldson asked.
The man’s face shone pale in the moonlight. And razor thin. The night air blew wisps of his long black hair, causing it to wrap around his face and stick to his thin, colorless lips.
Lucy dug the pair of scissors out of the waistband of her scrubs and handed them over to Donaldson.
“He looks familiar,” she said.
“You sure you killed twenty-nine? Maybe it was twenty-eight, and the last one is just pissed off.”
She let out a trembling breath. “No way. This can’t be him.”
The man was ten feet from the front bumper, and neither Donaldson nor Lucy could take their eyes off of him.
“Now would be a good time to fill me in,” Donaldson said.
“When I was fifteen, I ran away from home to a mystery book convention in Indianapolis to see my favorite author, Andrew Z. Thomas. While I was there, I killed for the first time. It was messy. I didn’t know what I was doing. I would’ve gotten myself caught, but these two guys…the ones I was telling you about earlier? They found me out. They came into the hotel room and—”
The man stopped at Donaldson’s window and rapped hard against the glass.
“Just tell me…is he a friend or foe?” Donaldson whispered.
“I’m not sure.”
Keeping the scissors palmed, Donaldson pressed the button on his door.
The window lowered halfway.
“Can I help you, buddy?” Donaldson said.
The man ducked down to look inside.
When his face appeared, Lucy said, “Holy shit, you’re—”
“Luther. Luther Kite. That you, little Lucy? Last time I saw you, you didn’t even have a driver’s license. Now look at you, on the TV, getting yourself into all sorts of trouble.”
Lucy’s face scrunched up. “Luther?”
Luther stuck the barrel of a gun into the car. When he pulled the trigger, it sounded like a hard blast of air.
Both Lucy and Donaldson stared down at the dart sticking out of Lucy’s chest.
She took a deep, sucking breath, like the wind had been knocked out of her.
Lucy rasped, “Why are you…” but never finished her sentence. She fell back into the passenger-side door, eyes closed, mouth yawning open.
Donaldson reached for the gun, but Luther jerked it back outside.
“Look…Luther is it?…there’s no love lost between me and this one. If you want some private time with the lady, she’s all yours.”
“Seems like you two are a package deal.” He jutted his chin toward their wrists. “What’s that all about?”
“Crazy bitch handcuffed us together.”
“Well, are you joined for life or do you have the key?”
“She’s got the key.”
Luther leveled the dart gun on Donaldson’s head. “Maybe you should find it.”
Donaldson leaned over and clumsily groped Lucy’s scrubs, checking various pockets. He came up empty.
“It’s not here,” he said. “She wouldn’t tell me where—”
Luther reached into the car with his other hand and grabbed Donaldson’s good ear. His only ear.
“Get out of the car.”
“I want to obey you. Really. But my arm and my legs are fucked up, and I’m chained to this psycho here. Did you know she’s a serial killer?”
“She do this to you?”
“Yeah. Hell, you can do whatever you want to her. I’ll even take pictures if you want.”
“You were on the news.”
“Really?”
“They said you were a monster. Maybe the most prolific killer since Green River.”
“They got it wrong. She’s the monster. I’m just a victim.”
“That so?”
“Look, buddy. I don’t know who you are, or what you want. But—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Luther twisted the ear. “Answer when spoken to. You a killer or not?”
“No! I’m fucking innocent!”
“Well, I’m relieved to hear that, Mr….?”
“Donaldson. Gregory Donaldson.”
“Do you want to know why I’m after Lucy here?”
“No,” Donaldson grunted. “It’s none of my business.”
“Do you want to know how we met?”
“I want to do whatever you want me to do.”
“That’s good, Mr. Donaldson. Because I want you to…get. Out. Of. The. Car.”
At the word car, Luther tugged, yanking Donaldson’s head into the window so hard the glass fractured.
But the ear stayed attached.
It took three more yanks to rip it off.
Donaldson screamed, and dropped the scissors.
“Can you hear me now?” Luther spoke into the severed ear. He took two steps back from the car. “Can you hear me now?” He raised it up over his head. “How about now?”
Tossing the ear across the road, Luther opened the car door and seized Donaldson’s swollen wrist. He gave it a sudden twist, and there was a sound like bubble wrap popping as all of Donaldson’s broken parts ground against one another.
Donaldson tumbled onto the ground, his knees sinking into the soft earth, the sounds coming from his throat scarcely human.
His good arm still stretched back into the Honda, cuffed to Lucy who’d been dragged across the central console.
“What if I were to tell you, Mr. Donaldson, that I wasn’t here for Lucy at all?”
Donaldson whimpered something incoherent.
“What if I were to tell you that I travelled a very long way just to have a chat with you?”
Luther gave the arm another terrible yank.
Donaldson screamed, the loudest scream yet, and passed out.
Donaldson returned to consciousness with Luther right in his face.
“Were you having a nice dream?”
Donaldson roared, staring at the skin bubbling under the flame on his ruined arm.
Luther snapped the Zippo shut.
“Welcome back,” he said. “Now get the fuck up.”
He strained to drag Donaldson onto his feet.
“My God, you’re fat,” he said.
Donaldson whimpered, struggling to catch his breath. Luther got him onto his knees, which prompted more screaming.
“Loud, too,” Luther said. He reached over Donaldson and grasped Lucy’s outstretched arm. “Help me get her out, Fat Man, or I’m going to play with your arm some more.”
Sobbing, Donaldson managed to pull Lucy free of the Honda.
Luther jammed the airgun into his belt, heaved her over his shoulder, and ordered Donaldson to follow.
The trio trudged up the dirt road. Earth sucked at Donaldson’s bare feet.
“You’re seriously still crying?” Luther asked. “Pathetic.”
Cows groaned in the adjacent field.
Snowfields glowed on the slopes of a mountain range twenty miles away.
The barn loomed fifty yards ahead.
“What do you want?” Donaldson asked, his voice cracking.
“Keep walking, Fat Man.”
The barn stood silhouetted against the night sky, a massive structure with a steeply-pitched roof. Across a winter-killed field, at least a half-mile away, there was a farmhouse. Dark. No lights. No cars out front. It looked abandoned.
Luther said, “The cop. Jack Daniels. You’ve met her.”
“What?” Donaldson’s voice continued to quaver. “Sorry, but you gotta speak up.”
“Jack Daniels. You know her? I saw her talking about you on the news.”
“Met her at a truck stop, few weeks ago.”
“Tell me. Tell me everything.”
So he did. Donaldson told Luther about meeting Taylor, their plans for Jack, and how the bitch had gotten the upper hand. The story took them up until they got into the barn through a giant, sliding door that creaked with rust as Luther dragged it open. Inside, it was pitch black and smelled like moldering hay. Luther led them to one of the support posts for the loft.
“What was she like?” he said, bending down and dropping Lucy.
“What?”
Luther glanced back at Donaldson, saw the blood draining out of the hole where his ear used to be. He turned around and stuck his finger in the hole, holding Donaldson’s head while he screamed. Blood rushed out, and then the flow eased.
“That better?” Luther asked. “I’m kind of tired of repeating myself.”
Donaldson fell to his knees, and then rolled onto the ground. Luther raised up a boot over Donaldson’s bad arm, and the fat man began to blabber.
“She’s a cop,” Donaldson moaned. “Busted a bunch of serial killers. In person, she’s cute. But strong. And smart. I really wished I’d had a chance to dip my wick. Been thinking about going back and looking her up, after I heal.”
Donaldson squinted at Luther, who had found a rusty kerosene lamp with a little gas left hanging from the rafters. He used his Zippo to fire it up and hung it on a rusty nail. A soft, orange glow filled the barn.
“You think you’re going to get that chance now?”
“That depends on you. I’m at your mercy.”
“Yes, you are. You know how this little game usually turns out, don’t you?”
“I know. Can’t say I really care all that much at this point, either.”
“You’re not afraid of death?”
“Brother, I AM death.”
Luther seemed to consider it. Then he walked over and kicked Donaldson in the arm.
“And I am PAIN,” Luther said. “I’m a lot worse than death.”
Donaldson grabbed his swollen appendage and whimpered through the pain until he found his voice again. “Why so interested in that cop? Got a thing for women in uniform? Or…wait a sec…you’re going to make a run at her, aren’t you?”
“I know you think you’re the best at what you do. Obviously, the fact that I’m here, healthy and comfortable, refutes that. There is no one like me in the world. I need a challenge.”
“I can help you.”
“I don’t need your help. Clearly.”
“You could use someone to watch your back. This one isn’t easy. Trust me. She’s a tough nut to crack. We could…hunt her together.”
Luther knelt down and looked Donaldson in the eyes.
“Two more questions and then we can move on to other things. I want your opinion. Is Jack Daniels lucky? Or is she really better than you are?”
“Bitch got lucky.”
“How about me? Did I get lucky, too?”
“Every dog has his day,” Donaldson said, then spat in Luther’s face.
Luther wiped the trail of saliva away with one finger and touched his tongue to it.
“How about Lucy? Looks like she did quite a number on you. Did she get lucky? Or maybe it isn’t luck. Maybe you’re just a used-up, fat piece of shit, and that’s why Lieutenant Daniels beat you. Why Lucy beat you. And why I’m about to beat you. To death.”
Luther kicked Donaldson in the chest, and then began to stomp on the man, using his boot heel.
At first, Donaldson tried to cover up, protect himself.
Eventually he stopped trying.
“That’s just a taste,” Luther said, delivering one final kick and wiping the blood off his boot and onto Donaldson’s heaving chest. “I’ll be back when I move the cars. Stick around, make yourself at home.”
Luther strolled out of the barn and disappeared.
Donaldson struggled to sit up.
“Lucy!” he whispered.
He rolled over and took her tiny face in his hands. Shook her head.
“Wake up!”
He smacked her face three times, and she stirred, her eyes fluttering opening.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“He’s gone.”
“Who?”
“Luther, you dumb bitch. He shot you with a tranq dart. Something short-acting.”
Lucy sat up, moaning. “The nerve block has almost worn off. My legs are on fucking fire.”
“Take a number and join the club.”
“Where are we? It stinks in here.”
“A barn. Your friend, Luther, is not a nice man. I can’t walk and carry you. You can’t walk at all. Where are the keys to these handcuffs?”
Lucy rubbed her eyes. “What?”
“The keys, you stupid—”
“Oh.” She grinned. “It’s like…kind of embarrassing.”
“Look, if we can get these cuffs off, I can surprise him when he comes back. Then we can take his car. But I can’t do that if we’re fucking chained together.”
“Why should I help you? That man…Luther…is my friend.”
“That man ain’t anybody’s friend.”
“People would say the same about you, D.”
Donaldson let out a slow breath. He met Lucy’s eyes.
“Believe it or not, I’ve been thinking about what you said, while your friend was kicking the fuck out of me. About killing together or dying alone. I’m starting to like that idea.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Really really?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake—”
“Okay. If you want out of the cuffs, the key is up my ass. But you have to get it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious.”