CHAPTER 50
Brockton I HEARD A CHORUS of muffled screams, including my own, when Satterfield cut off Kathleen’s finger. My heart was racing and my chest was heaving; with the duct tape over my mouth, I couldn’t get enough air, and felt close to blacking out. Calm down, I commanded myself. Calm down. Breathe. Think. If you panic instead of thinking, everybody dies. At death scenes—even gruesome ones, like the woman’s body pinned to the tree by arrows—I was generally able to distance myself from the horror; to look at the scene as a puzzle. Could I do that now? I didn’t know, but it seemed our only hope.
Satterfield laid Kathleen’s finger on the table, along with the gardening shears, and picked up his gun again. I forced myself to observe his face, his movements, his surroundings, as if he were a research subject.
Over his shoulder, I suddenly glimpsed movement—a reflection in the sliding-glass door? No, I realized with a shock. Something—someone—outside the door, out on the patio. I waited and watched, tuning out the sights and sounds and horrors closer at hand. There it was again—a face! My God—Tyler’s face! Perhaps there was a glimmer of hope.
But it was faint, and it was fleeting. We didn’t have much time—maybe not even time for Tyler to go next door and call the police. If the police did come, and if Satterfield heard them, he’d kill us swiftly, before they could stop him.
It’s up to Tyler, I thought desperately, and then thought despairingly, How? It would take a miracle. The word itself—miracle—gave me an idea. It was an absurd idea, but it was the only idea I had.
I shifted my focus back to Satterfield. I had to get his attention; I had to persuade him to take the tape off my mouth. I grunted his name, as best I could through the tape: Nnn-nn-nnn. NNN-nn-nnn. He looked at me quizzically. NNN-nn-nnn!
Now his expression changed to amusement. “Are you speaking to me?” I nodded, praying. “You have something important to say?” I nodded again. “What could you possibly say that would interest me now? ‘I’m sorry?’ Too late. ‘Kill me first?’ Not a chance.” I shook my head firmly. “You really mean it, don’t you? You actually think you have something to say.” I nodded. Don’t look desperate, I urged myself. Look strong. Look smart. Look like you know something he needs to know. “Tell you what,” he said finally. “We’ll play a game. I’ll let you talk for ten seconds. If you scream, I shoot your wife. If you bore me, I shoot your son. Deal?”
I nodded again. It was an easy deal to make; we were all dead anyhow.
With his left hand, he pressed the muzzle of the gun to my temple. With his right, he picked up the gardening shears and brought the tips of the blades to my face. For a moment I expected him to cut off my nose, but he turned the tool sideways and slit the duct tape. I drew a deep breath—the air felt precious—and then I began to speak, softly at first, then gradually louder: “And the Lord God said, Behold, the man is become as one of us, with knowledge of good and evil. And the Lord looked at the garden, and he drove them from it.” Satterfield stared at me as if I’d lost my mind, and perhaps I had. I wasn’t counting the seconds, but he hadn’t shot anyone—not yet, at least. The next part was the important part. Please be out there, Tyler, I prayed. Please listen. Please understand. “And in the garden he placed an angel,” I went on, with rising fervor, like an old-time preacher. “An angel with spreading wings and a mighty sword. So that if any evildoer should come therein, the angel could fly at him with the sword, and smite the evil one, like the whirling hammer of the Lord God Almighty.”
CHAPTER 51
Tyler