"No," she said, snarling it this time. "No, you won't."
She tried to run around the other side of the island and head him off, but she couldn't run, not while she was dragging the shattered remains of the chair behind her like a ball and f**king chain-it was still duct-taped to her left knee. It banged against the island, slammed her in the butt, tried to get between her legs and trip her. The chair seemed to be on his side, and she was glad she had broken it.
Pickering got to the knife-it was lying against the bottom of the swing door-and fell on it like a football tackle covering a loose ball. He was making a guttural wheezing sound deep in his throat. Em reached him just as he started to turn over. She hammered him with the chair arm again and again, shrieking, aware in some part of her mind that it wasn't heavy enough and she wasn't generating anywhere near the amount of force she wanted to generate. She could see her right wrist, already puffing up, trying to address the outrage perpetrated on it just as if it expected to survive this day.
Pickering collapsed on the knife and lay still. She backed away a little, gasping for breath, those little white comets once more flying across her field of vision.
Men spoke in her mind. This was not uncommon with her, and not always unwelcome. Sometimes, but not always.
Henry: "Get that damned knife and put it right between his shoulder blades."
Rusty: "No, honey. Don't go close to him. That's what he expects. He's playing possum."
Henry: "Or the back of his neck. That's good, too. His stinking neck."
Rusty: "Reaching under him would be like sticking your hand into a hay baler, Emmy. You've got two choices. Beat him to death-"
Henry, sounding reluctant but convinced: "-or run."
Well, maybe. And maybe not.
There was a drawer on this side of the island. She yanked it open, hoping for another knife-for lots of them: carving knives, filleting knives, steak knives, serrated bread knives. She would settle for a goddam butter knife. What she saw was mostly an array of fancy black plastic cooking tools: a pair of spatulas, a ladle, and one of those big serving spoons full of holes. There was some other bric-a-brac, but the most dangerous-looking thing her eye fell on was a potato peeler.
"Listen to me," she said. Her voice was hoarse, almost guttural. Her throat was dry. "I don't want to kill you, but I will if you make me. I've got a meat fork here. If you try to turn over, I'll stick it in the back of your neck and keep pushing until it comes out the front."
Did he believe her? That was one question. She was sure he'd removed all the knives except for the one underneath him on purpose, but could he be sure he'd gotten all the other sharp objects? Most men had no idea what was in the drawers of their kitchens-she knew this from life with Henry, and before Henry from life with father-but Pickering wasn't most men and this wasn't most kitchens. She had an idea it was more like an operating theater. Still, given how dazed he was (was he dazed?), and how he must surely believe that a lapse of memory could get him killed, she thought the bluff might run. Only there was another question: Was he even hearing her? Or understanding her if he did? A bluff couldn't work if the person you were trying to bluff didn't understand the stakes.
But she wasn't going to stand here debating. That would be the worst thing she could do. She bent over, never taking her eyes from Pickering, and hooked her fingers under the last band of tape still binding her to the chair. The fingers of her right hand wanted even less to work now, but she made them. And her sweat-drenched skin helped. She shoved downward, and the tape started coming free with another ill-tempered ripping sound. She supposed it hurt, it left a bright-red band across her kneecap (for some reason the word Jupiter floated randomly through her mind), but she was far past feeling such things. It let go all at once and slid down to her ankle, wrinkled and twisted and sticking to itself. She shook it off her foot and sidled backward, free. Her head was pounding, either from exertion or from where he'd hit her while she was looking at the dead girl in the trunk of his Mercedes.
"Nicole," she said. "Her name was Nicole."
Naming the dead girl seemed to bring Em back to herself a little. Now the idea of trying to get the butcher knife out from under him seemed like madness. The part of herself that sometimes talked in her father's voice was right-just staying in the same room with Pickering was pressing her luck. Which left leaving. Only that.
"I'm going now," she said. "Do you hear me?"
He didn't move.
"I've got the meat fork. If you come after me, I'll stab you with it. I'll...I'll poke your eyes out. What you want to do is stay right where you are. Have you got that?"
He didn't move.
Emily backed away from him, then turned and left the kitchen by the door on the other side of the room. She was still holding the bloody chair arm.