There was no reason to add either antagonism or appeasement. Neither would help.
“I tell people, naw, that can’t be.”
Ariel felt her pulse pounding, her jaw twitching, her whole body gearing up. She was now sure this was going to end badly, just a question of which type of badly, and whether someone was going to end up in the hospital, or dead. And which person that was going to be.
“That chick”—Payne grinned—“she likes dick. I can tell.”
This time his hand shot out quickly, taking Ariel by surprise, grabbing her around the neck. He was a big man with big beefy hands. He wasn’t fit, but he was definitely strong. Ariel felt the gag response kick in.
The dogs were barking up a storm out on the porch, on the wrong side of a closed door.
She was ready for this, wasn’t she? She had trained, she had practiced. Not just generally, not just in the abstract. She had prepared for this specifically.
There’d be no point in stomping down on the hardened toe of his boot, which wouldn’t injure anyone but herself. So she skipped that step, and raised her leg swiftly and carefully, aiming her knee directly at his crotch with maximal force, for maximal pain upon impact, and he howled and released her neck, but she didn’t allow him to retreat before she thrust her right arm outward, not any type of roundhouse or hook but just a fast straight jab—accuracy and angle were much more important than power here—leading with the heel of her hand instead of knuckles, aiming at the bottom of his nose from below, driving upward, wrist firm, full arm extension, getting her lower body into it too, marshaling all the momentum of her 130 pounds into violent collision with the small delicate bones of this big man’s little upturned nose, blood gushing as he doubled over, and she took a sideways step and grabbed a cast-iron skillet and swung it at Payne’s head, which was now situated directly in her wheelhouse at hip level, and the pan made impact with a resounding clang, and he pitched over and hit the kitchen floor with a thud that shook the whole floor.
Ariel scuttled to the counter, yanked a carving knife from the block. “I should kill you.”
She was standing off to his side, not giving Payne any opportunity to kick up at her. He was writhing from the pain in his crotch, his nose, his cheek with a large gash, possibly broken cheekbone, broken nose.
“In fact maybe I will.”
“No!” He released one of his hands from his face, held it up, bloody palm facing her, warding off the long blade.
“Beg, motherfucker. Beg me to not kill you.”
“Please,” he begged, crawling toward the door.
Ariel stood her ground, holding the kitchen knife in one hand and the pan in the other, panting, glaring, like some deranged action-movie character, Revenge Mom.
“Please,” he repeated.
She thought of calling the police. But she didn’t want to divert her attention, to give him time or space to make a move. At that moment it may have seemed like she’d won this fight, but it was also possible that he was gathering strength to get up and charge her.
It was also possible that he had a gun in the truck. With that crossed-rifles bumper sticker, it was guaranteed, wasn’t it? There was definitely a firearm in that vehicle, and he would come rushing back up these porch steps with both bloody hands clutching a semiautomatic, squeezing off shots indiscriminately, killing the dogs first, then turning the muzzle toward her—
Ariel could see this outcome so clearly it seemed inevitable.
*
She bounded down the steps while checking the position of the trucks, confirming that there was no way she could maneuver her own pickup past his, trees in the way, the garage too. And if she fled on foot he’d chase her down easily in his truck before she could reach any safety. He’d shoot her through his window, like the unsportsmanlike sportsman he definitely was.
Ariel yanked open his truck’s door, reached under the seat, found nothing there but trash; she thrust her hand into the door pocket, found more trash.
She glanced back to see that Payne had stood, was crossing the porch gingerly. Like an injured animal fighting for its life, hurt and humiliated and angry and irrational. More dangerous than ever.
There was no gun in the center console.
He was stumbling down the stairs. The dogs were flanking him, barking at him, but they wouldn’t actually attack.
No gun under the passenger seat.
He was staggering toward her on the flagstone path. Just twenty yards away.
She fully extended her body across the driver’s seat, reaching across to hit the glove box’s release, but nothing happened—damn—so she hit it again and still nothing—
He was ten yards away.
—so she banged the heel of her hand against the small door and—finally—it popped open, ejecting a tire-pressure gauge and an amber bottle of painkillers and a Twix, this detritus falling to the filthy floor mat, leaving the compartment empty except for the biggest heaviest item in there, a semiautomatic handgun, anchored in place by its own weight.
She grabbed the weapon, then propelled herself backward blindly, sliding rear-first on her stomach, flying off the driver’s seat and out the door, one of her feet finding purchase on the truck’s rubber-treaded step but the other missing, and she lost her balance and tumbled backward and landed on her ass, a powerful jolt, and then the back of her skull collided with the pebbled driveway, and everything went dark for an instant but the darkness quickly resolved itself into bursting stars and then she could see him standing directly above her, just beyond the end of the gun barrel she was aiming at his face.
She released the safety.
“Step the fuck back,” she said.
Ariel scrambled backward, pushing herself away with one hand while the other kept a steady hold of the gun. She shifted her aim away from Payne’s head toward the larger, easier target of the center of his mass. Ariel had very little experience firing a handgun, but she didn’t think she’d miss from five feet away, or seven, or ten, which was the distance when she stood up.
Her mind raced in debate, one she’d had before, but only in her imagination, in the abstract, about another man. Now it was concrete, it was now, it was this man. She knew that either way, she was probably going to spend the rest of her life second-guessing her decision.
“Get the fuck out of here,” she said.
And he did.
CHAPTER 15
DAY 1. 7:22 P.M.
Ariel is crossing the street diagonally to the khaki guy’s side, closing the space between them quickly. He’s trying hard to pretend to ignore her.