“What shit?”
“I don’t know about all that, but that’s good information, right?”
“Yeah, that’s fucking good information, and I’ll pass it on.”
“So you’ll let me go?”
“Fuck no. You’re nothin’ but a piece of shit.”
I tape up his mouth before he can talk, and give him a shove so he rolls down the slope. It’s an awkward tumble, like a quadruple amputee with a back deformity who is desperately trying but can’t stop himself. He lands on his side and gets caught up on some trash along the riverbank. I slide myself down. He’s jerking and trying to kick himself free.
I give his body a good push off the bank with my foot and send him into the river so the current’ll slowly take him. His body naturally rolls upward, like a fishing bobber made for great white sharks. He sucks in air through his nose and his chest expands like he thinks that’ll keep him afloat.
I pull out the Taurus and take aim at his chest. His eyes widen and nostrils flare. He struggles to break free, but all that does is take his head under. It quickly pops up again and he blows water out of his nose and almost pops the duct tape from his mouth.
He stretches his neck out, trying to keep his head up. His eyes are glazed by the cold water. They fix on me, but only for a second. It’s an odd look.
I put my finger on the trigger, and then his eyes turn away from me and toward the sky. It’s sudden. I know he realizes I’m not the one to give him grace, and so he doesn’t want to see it coming.
I think about leaving him to the filthy river and let it do the job instead. Just turn around and walk away. But I can’t imagine drowning in that foul place, pulled under, or maybe I can.
So why can’t I pull the trigger?
I lower the gun and watch the light on the surface of the water, then toss the gun out, as far as I can, and I know Playboy sees it swooping over him, ’cause his black eyes follow it. It splashes into the river about ten feet past his floating body.
I look toward my feet and the river’s edge. The dark water slaps at the muddy bank. It’s not even a foot deep at the edge and you still can’t see the bottom.
I take my suit coat off, survey the ground above me, looking for a clean spot, but there ain’t one.
“Shit,” I mumble.
I gently fold the suit coat and set it on a small strip of dead grass.
I step in the river. My feet sink into the mud, the cold water just below my knees. Playboy’s a couple of feet out. I pull my foot out of the mud to take another step and it’s like a mouth holding me in place.
Now that it’s got me it doesn’t wanna let me go.
I pull my right foot out of the mud and lose my shoe.
“Fuckin’ hell…”
The next step is a plunge and the water’s at my belly. The cold hits me with a sudden surge and I gasp and then belt out what was supposed to be “Fucking shit,” but sounds like,“Foggin-shh.”
I step on something I hope is a log and almost fall forward, but I reach for a small branch above my head to steady myself. I think about turning back ’cause I get a strong feeling this is it for me. This is how I’m supposed to go—in the worst possible way.
Playboy is right there in front of me. His head’s now just barely out of the water, but I know he sees me. I’m chest deep in this murk and ankle deep in muddy decay. The current is strong, but not so strong to take my feet out from under me. I feel for the next step and then reach for Playboy’s head. He goes under, but I manage to get my hand under his chin and pull him toward me.
When his head is at my chest I secure his chin between my forearm and bicep and slowly sidestep back to the bank, careful not to trip over any sunken debris, like a fucking suitcase.
I struggle to the bank and push him halfway up so he’s on his side. His breathing is labored and snot bubbles out his nostrils. He’s scratched up pretty bad and his left kneecap is swollen to the size of a softball like it’s been dislocated.
I rip the duct tape off his mouth. He spits water, but not far enough to hit me.
“Don’t move or I’ll leave you where you are,” I tell him.
“Plea…” he struggles to say.
“And shut up.”
I kneel down so one knee is on the bank. I pull out my knife and fold it open. I cut the zip tie that binds his ankles to his wrists. He belts out a painful cry as his legs drop like he’s lost all muscle control, and his feet splash toes-first into the water. I grab his left ankle and pull it up and cut the zips from his ankles. His hands are still bound behind his back, but I don’t cut them free. I fold the knife back in place and slip it in my pants pocket.
I crawl on my hands and knees out of the water and onto the river’s nasty edge. The mud’s so thick it’s still caked on my socks and pants legs below my knees.