The Killing Hour

‘Are you deaf? The comic deaf man? Is that it?’


Jesus, why is he even bothering looking for a confession? He ought to just do what he came out here to do. Go home. Get drunk. Sleep it off. Get drunk again in the morning. Get drunk every morning between now and the end. That’s the real truth Feldman came close to hitting. Stay drunk then maybe none of this will seem real any more. It can all have been a very bad dream.

‘What about the door to my house?’ Feldman asks. ‘You know somebody broke in. You know somebody trashed my room. Why would I cut her breast off and leave it on my bed? Why would I let you inside knowing that? If I was going to kill somebody I’d hide all the evidence.’

‘You wanted a souvenir, Feldman. Your type always does. And your type are always so goddamn cocky you never think we’re going to show up.’

‘And the house? The break-in?’

‘You trashed it in an effort to draw attention away from yourself. You think by saying all this nonsense it diverts suspicion away from you. That’s what you were counting on if you ever got caught. Come on, Feldman, I’m getting sick and tired of your bullshit.’

‘You’re saying I’m cocky enough to assume you’ll never show up, and at the same time I trashed my house knowing that you would. See? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Here’s what I know, Feldman. I know you’ve lied to me. You told me you didn’t know these two women when you did. You told me you weren’t at their homes when you were. I know these two women died horribly. I know you’re into storing body parts. I know you removed your name and phone number from Kathy’s house. I found it on your bed. They weren’t innocent, though, were they, Feldman? They deserved it. They mocked you or rejected you or looked at you funny. Or did they simply forget to smile when you stood in line behind them at the supermarket?’

‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t matter what I say. You’ve already made up your mind.’



‘So you’re confessing?’

‘I’m never going to confess to something I didn’t do. If that’s what you’re waiting for then you’re wasting your time. Why don’t we just get this over with so we can stop playing your petty little game?’

‘Maybe you’re right, Feldman. Maybe I have wasted too much of my time.’

He stands up and points the shotgun at him. Think, goddamn it, think. You’re a police officer, your job is to uphold the law. Is that what you’re doing? It is? Well, why don’t you take a look at yourself?

Keeping the shotgun level he moves to the door and slides it open. The cold wind sweeps into the cabin, chilling Landry to the bone. It chills his mind too, and in these few frozen seconds he hates himself for what he’s going to do before the night is over.

No. No, no, no. He’s gone through this already, he’s gone through this and justified it.

Sure you’ve justified it. But you’re hiding something too, aren’t you? The change of clothes. The Bible. You knew you were coming out here tonight. It’s not that you came out here with no plan. You came out here with a bad one.

The change of clothes and the Bible doesn’t prove anything, not really. The leap between arresting somebody and driving them out into the forest at night and shooting them is still a giant one to make.

And you don’t think you’re making it?

He looks up at Feldman. The anger is starting to return but not all of it is directed at this murderer, yet to direct some of it at himself is detrimental. He hates Feldman. He hates Feldman because all of this is his fault. He hates Feldman for forcing him to do this.

Worst of all, he hates himself.





23


There’s no blood on my chair or on any of the walls or on the pine-needle stained glass door, so maybe Landry was telling the truth when he said he hasn’t been out here since finding the dead girl in the bathtub. Or maybe he’s lying and isn’t in the habit of shooting people indoors. Things would be easier for him if he took me for a walk in the woods. It’ll be like dragging my own cross through town.

‘You’re going to feel empty when Cyris is found. You’ll never be able to forgive yourself for killing an innocent man. Will you turn yourself in when that happens?’

He doesn’t answer me, just stands next to the door with both hands on the shotgun. The look on his face suggests he doesn’t want to be out here either. The gun reminds me that I’m just a homicide in progress, tomorrow’s statistic. My heart is pumping so loudly I can barely hear the rain. My stomach is so weak the fluids inside have created a cesspool of fear that makes me want to throw up and soil myself at the same time. I’m going to die.



‘Come on, Feldman. It’s time to go,’ he says, and he’s the one who sounds as if he’s been defeated.

‘No. No, please, think about what you’re doing.’