The Killing Hour

‘I am. And you’d be doing the same thing if you were in my shoes. Now come on, get up.’


I try to get to my feet but the angle of the chair and the way I’m buried in it makes things difficult, as do the handcuffs. The springs in the chair cut into me as I wiggle forward. When I finally get to my feet I’m puffing but it’s too cold in here to sweat. He gestures me towards the door where I pause looking out at what Mother Nature has to offer me on my final night. The wind is racing in and gripping us both tightly. My legs are shaking from fear and cold and my teeth are starting to chatter.

‘No jacket?’ I ask.

‘I’m sure you can survive without one.’

‘I thought I was supposed to be the funny one. Can I at least make an appeal?’

He shakes his head as he reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘No.’

‘You said there was no forced entry. Doesn’t that suggest that they knew the killer?’

‘That’s what I said all along.’

‘You misunderstand.’

‘No. I don’t.’

I look at his gloved hands. If anybody finds my body and links it to this cabin they’ll never find any of his prints. Once again he offers me a cigarette.

Once again I shake my head. ‘Those things will kill you.’

He smirks at my comment, then slowly shakes his head. ‘Goddamn it, Feldman, don’t you ever shut up?’

‘I can’t help it,’ I hear myself saying, and I really can’t. ‘But I guess now’s as good a time as any to try one.’

He tosses me a cigarette and I hurt my wrists plucking it from the air. I’ll smoke the whole lot if it will win me some time.

‘Light?’

He throws the lighter. This guy is taking no chances. He’s not going to get anywhere near me. Early in the evening I was intimidated by his authority. Now it’s the gun that demands my respect. I hold the cigarette tightly between my lips, raise the blue lighter, fumble with the catch, then light the end. The flame works but the cigarette doesn’t.

‘You need to breathe in,’ he says, and he almost sounds compassionate, as if teaching a five-year-old how to ride a bike.

I don’t know exactly what to expect but my mouth is quickly filled with thick smoke. It catches in my throat as if I’ve just swallowed a wad of tissues. I start gagging. Smoke is drawn into my lungs and smoke and snot gush from my nose. The cigarette falls from my mouth but clings to my lower lip. I brush it onto the ground. A small tentacle of smoke whispers from the end.

Landry is motionless, watching me with an emptiness in his eyes that suggests nobody is home. Nothing here, it seems, amuses or angers him. He looks lost.

‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘I’m almost sorry I have to kill you.’

‘You’re sorry?’

Suddenly he seems to snap out of whatever daze he’s in. ‘I was right about you, Feldman. You’re a real smartarse.’ He waves the gun at me. ‘Now tidy up that mess.’

I pick up the cigarette and flick it towards the fireplace. I pause, trying to think of an action or a word that will help me, but he pushes me onto the small porch by jabbing me with the shotgun. I put one foot forward and start walking. When I step down onto the mud it feels like I’m being acupunctured with needles that have been kept in the freezer overnight. The cold wind drives those needles deep into my flesh. My wet clothes flap against my skin.

Landry orders me forward by prodding me again. As we move past his car he leans in and grabs a torch, all the time keeping the gun trained on me. He tosses me the torch, then directs me into the belt of trees. Damn trees. I’ve seen more trees this week than in my entire life. I can’t see exactly where I’m supposed to be heading.

‘Stop stalling, Feldman, I’m sure you can find a path in there.’

I point the torch into the inky blackness, spotlighting branches and leaves but not a whole lot more – certainly no dirt path. I head forward anyway, figuring Landry will stop me if I’m too far off the track. I step between a couple of birch trees, struggling to cover my face from the branches that claw at me like dirty fingers. I manage two steps before becoming lost. Can’t see the forest for the trees. Well, in this case I can’t see the forest for the dark. The ground turns from mud to hard-packed dirt and roots. I move the torch around and start to walk slower, not to preserve time but in order to concentrate on each footstep.

‘You’ve got the wrong man, Landry.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Shouldn’t you at least hold off killing me?’

‘I’m a busy man.’

‘You could just tie me up. At least until you have a few more facts.’

‘I’ve all the facts I need.’



‘You’re wrong. Tie me up and when you find you’re wrong I promise not to tell anybody.’ I really do promise it. The river nearby is getting louder. ‘Think about what you’re doing.’