AFTER MIDNIGHT. I don’t hear the Dogs of War unleashed. I fear Upton and Tony have let us down. From the smokehouse, I crab-crawl to the shelter of the tree-line at the edge of the forest. Pausing to get my bearings, I struggle to make out a silhouette from The Chatterbox slinking through the woods. Blood loss is sapping my energy. If I pass out, Gabby and I are dead. Time is my enemy. I need to make something happen quickly.
“You’re right!” I shout into the black. “The cavalry isn’t coming to the rescue. I’m on my own, totally off the reserve. Bad for me, bad for you, too. I’m operating without restraint, Simon, free to shoot first and to ask questions later. Believe me, I’m not here to read you your Rights.”
To my surprise—or perhaps not—The Chatterbox replies.
“In that case, I can simply wait you out. Eventually, you’ll bleed to death. You say you’re not badly hurt, but your voice is weak, you’re weak. I’m assuming you’ve jury-rigged a solution to keep Gabby safe, for now, but soon I’ll have her all to myself. I’ll have my way with her, Dex. Think about Marcus; you know it won’t be pretty, painless, or quick. Show yourself now and let’s get it over with. You do that, I’ll make sure she goes quietly, maybe even let her live.”
He’s on the opposite side of the deck from me, not thirty feet away, but using the heavy plank floorboards for cover. With a full mag and one last clips in reserve, I could open-fire randomly, but that would be a waste of ammo. I need to keep him talking. Not snappy back-and-forth repartee but get him started on one of his long-winded monologues because I know how he loves to gab. That could give me time to work my way around to the front of the cabin and surprise him by coming up from behind. Given a chance, I will not hesitate to shoot him in the back, no warning, no questions asked.
“I’m too young to remember the Son of Sam,” I call out. “But I’ve seen file photos of his picture in The New York Times. Berkowitz wasn’t a handsome man, but the camera loved him. I overheard my mother once say he was cute.” This much about my mother is true. “You, on the other hand, look like a Hollywood movie star. Like Ted Bundy; you’re a real charmer.”
“Flattery much appreciated, Dexter, but I’m still going to skin you alive.”
“If you die here, Simon, your story dies with you. The newspapers will try, but you know how they are. They never get it right. In the movie, they’ll have you wetting the bed, fucking your mother, chopping the balls off your father, and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. Help me to get it right.”
Evidently, he mulls this over because The Chatterbox starts talking.
Tentative, to begin, as if he’s on to my ruse. Then, with more confidence in a steady drone. This is my cue to get moving. As quietly as possible, I make my way to the opposite side of the cabin. I pause once or twice to regain my strength, but do not tarry long. The chill, the damp, and the soothing tone of The Chatterbox’s fading voice all conspire with blood-loss to lull me to sleep forever.
I can still hear him talking as I make my way in a low crouch across the front of Danilenko’s cabin, but I can’t make out the words.
Rounding the front edge of the cabin, I drop to my belly. From here, I can be seen by The Chatterbox. The dark and the undergrowth provide me with some measure of meager cover but as I approach, I’ll be increasingly exposed. Then again, he may hear me before he sees me. There is nowhere for me to hide if he opens fire.
As these things pass through my mind, I realize The Chatterbox has stopped talking. For how long, I wonder? Long enough to shift his position? Suddenly, I feel terribly vulnerable. To alter the dynamic, I fire my weapon into open air: to the front, to the side, to the rear. I stand. Hunched-over, I scurry back the way I came to the front of The Uke’s cabin in the opposite direction from where I last heard the voice of The Chatterbox talking.
Rounding the corner, I run headlong into a brick wall. My fevered mind thinks it’s The Uke come to save me. But it’s not, it’s Simon. He’s circled the building to come up from behind me, large as a Mack truck. With a forearm shiver, he lays me flat on my back.
Temporarily dazed, I shake my head to clear it. By this time Simon has disarmed me. Standing over me like an ogre, he says, “Your capacity to underestimate never ceases to amaze me.”
I struggle to respond.
“Which is another way of saying you won’t be leaving here alive. As for Gabby? You’ve just guaranteed she suffers a different kind of fate altogether.”
“The cavalry is coming,” I mumble ineffectually.
Simon cups an ear to the air as if to listen. “I think not.”
Quickly, he secures my legs at the ankle with duct tape. He binds my hands at the wrist with duct tape. He doesn’t tape my mouth. As if to answer my confusion, he says, “Why bother? You can scream as loud as you want, there’s no one left to hear.”
Simon then grasps me by the feet and drags me like a sack of grain through the dirt to the rear of the cabin where he deposits me on the deck. “You’ll be safe here, for now.” Bending down to be close to me, he says, “The next sound you hear will be your partner begging for mercy.”
He straightens himself, turns to go. He’s halfway across the deck before I shout.
“Stop! It’s not how the script is written. No one will idealize you for killing a cop. It deviates from your MO. It turns your character into a garden variety psychopath instead of a cunning Serial Killer; it will slander your reputation. I know you know this, Simon. You’re posturing. You only threaten Gabby to get a reaction out of me. Mission accomplished. The best ending is for you to walk out of here to kill another day. Leave Gabby and me broken, struggling to put back the pieces of our shattered lives and careers. Maybe I start drinking, just like you said. Maybe Gabby starts sleeping around. But we can’t let it go. Eventually, we buck-up, come after you. Now that will make for an incredible sequel.”
Simon is listening. He pauses. I think I have him.
“Yes, yes!” I say, becoming delirious, words tripping out over my tongue. “Or you kill me, Gabby escapes and hunts you down for revenge. Better. Better!”
“Like I say, Fortune, your capacity to underestimate never ceases to amaze me.”
Simon turns on his heel toward the smokehouse and toward Gabby, who I’ve left swinging helpless from the rafters.