The next day at work he sees her for the first time. She is a summation of it all. She is almost identical to the first girl in appearance. She is almost identical to his mother in personality. She is like meth being forcefed into his veins. It is immediate and overwhelming. He forgets the Steps. He forgets to ask for help from a higher power. Instead he remembers that she is dangerous. He remembers the importance of vigilance.
He finds reasons to leave the cattle side of the operation, showing up at the horse barn. He must keep tabs on her. It is even worse than he feared. She is evil. He doesn’t use that word lightly. There were some he killed who he will admit were only bad. This goes far beyond bad. This goes all the way to hell. It’s vital that records be kept so that there is proof of her sins.
Worst of all, she’s too smart for her own good. She has seen him and she knows. She knows who he is. He saw it in her copper-colored eyes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I HAVE BOTH HANDS ON the Colt Python. It’s shoved up against the base of the Wolfman’s skull, and the first thing that happens is I realize just how tall he is. He is unfathomably tall, or maybe my arms make him feel taller than he really is. Either way, I can’t maintain this angle. I’ve got to lower my arms. For a second, as we both stand frozen, this inability to keep my arms up seems insurmountable. I’m scared I’m going to lower my arms, and then he’ll spin around and get me. It’s all so tenuous, everything held together by the flimsiest thread.
Then a stroke of genius hits me and I say, “Get down on your knees!”
He pauses, and it reminds me of a young horse who tests you to see who is boss. Thing is, I know how to teach an animal who’s boss, so I crack his skull with the butt of the gun. I’d never treat a horse this harshly, but I’m not dealing with a horse. I’m dealing with a monster.
He drops down so fast it’s like I swept his legs out from under him. My arms cry with relief.
The Wolfman, now on his knees, doesn’t move a muscle. He’s afraid. He’s afraid of dying. He’s afraid of me. My fever brain likes this turn of events. It likes it a lot.
“Set your rifle down.” He obeys.
“Put your hands behind your head.” He obeys again.
Even though my gun is worthless, I keep it pointed at him while I stash the rifle in the kitchen broom closet. It’s hard to keep the Colt steady, even held level. It weighs probably three pounds. With these broken arms of mine, it feels like thirty.
Rifle put away, I return the barrel to Wolfman’s head, so he can feel it. Because this is a revolver, it’s easy to see if it’s loaded. I’ve got to keep him from looking at me. If he turns around and sees it’s empty, it’s game over.
Pulling back the hammer, so he can hear what death sounds like, I say to him, “Walk on your knees up the stairs.”
It’s instinct that makes me say this. It seems the main floor is the place to be. But as I watch him walk on his knees all the way to the stairs, then awkwardly navigate his way up them, my crazy fever brain is pleased. Very, very pleased.
We get to the top of the stairs and I say, “This was an exercise in obedience.”
There’s more light up here, and I want to do a search, see if he has my cell phone.
“Turn out your pockets. All of them.” Interestingly, a frightening--looking Swiss Army knife and two zip ties are revealed. “How convenient,” I say, before pocketing the knife and tying his hands with the zip ties.
“Ouch,” he says, when I pull the cord the tight.
“Ouch?” Crazy fever brain thinks “ouch” is hilarious. I double-check all the pockets. No cell. “Where’s my phone?” I ask.
“I destroyed it.”
“I don’t believe you. Is it in your truck?”
“I crushed it with a rock.”
“No lying! Those are the rules, remember? When you lie to me, I call bullshit. Do you know how light the trigger is on a Colt Python? Super, super light. Don’t make me call bullshit, because every time I have to call bullshit, I’m going to get mad, so mad I might just accidentally pull the trigger. It’s so, so light, you know? Easy to make mistakes, when you’re mad.” I pause. “You hear me?”
“Yes.”
“You understand the game?”
“Yes.”
“You understand the consequences?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling hungry. I think this game would be a lot more fun for me with some food. So, you lie facedown”—I nudge him with the barrel and he complies—“and I’m going to go get something.”
He’s only five feet from the kitchen. Digging around for food, I find a nice, long kitchen towel and bring it back to him.
“You’ve stared at enough girls in your life. You don’t get to stare at me anymore.” I tie the towel around his head to blindfold him. Really, I don’t want him to see my gun is empty, but what I’ve said has the benefit of also being true.