My better judgment tells me to ignore him, but I don’t. “Do what?” I ask.
“I see what you have going there. You want me to think you’re going to cut a hole through the ice so you can drop me through. Am I right?”
I turn the auger and don’t answer.
“My guess is that this is all some ill-conceived plan to get to me to . . . I don’t know what your goal is here, but I’m sure you’ll tell me at some point, probably when you get close to finishing your little project there.”
“You and I are going to have a talk,” I say. “There’s no question about that. We can do it now or we can do it later. That’s up to you, but we will have a talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you—except that you’re a fucking psychopath. You’re not going to get to me with your little game of . . . what did they call it in those old black-and-white movies . . . the third-degree? That’s right. You’re giving me the third-degree here. But we both know it’s all pretend, so you may as well give up, because I’m not buying it.”
“That would be a mistake,” I say.
I keep the auger turning at a steady pace. I don’t want him to know how slowly it’s cutting through the ice. But this is his auger, taken from his cabin. He’s surely used it before. He has to know how dull the blade is and what an effort it takes to cut through the ice. He has me at a disadvantage on that score.
But on all other accounts, I have the upper hand because he doesn’t understand how much I know. If I were to lay it all out for him—cut to the chase, so to speak—it would hit him like a baseball bat to the chest. I could do that, and I briefly consider it, just to see the look of astonishment on his face. But I can’t do that. That’s not why I came here. That’s not what this is about. I will not accept remorse from a man who has no other choice. What good is a confession if the sinner has to be dragged kicking and screaming down the church aisle?
Time and pressure. Stick with the plan.
“Want to know how I know that this is all bullshit?” he says. “Do you? You fucked up. You tipped your hand. Think it through. There’s a flaw in your logic, and you don’t see it.”
I lean onto the auger, using my weight to give the blade more bite. I can still see the top of the shovel above the ice shavings, which means that I’ve only drilled down about six inches. How long has it been? Ten minutes, maybe? Christ. I stop drilling and scoop the ice shavings out of the hole. As I scoop, I inspect the sides of the blade hoping to see that one side is sharper than the other, looking for a slight glint where a file may have turned rusted steel into fresh metal. No such luck.
“Don’t you want to know your flaw?” the man asks.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” I say, as I go back to drilling.
“If you had the balls to kill me, you would have done it by now. You had me out cold. I was completely defenseless. You could have killed me and left me out here for the wolves to clean up, but you didn’t. You see the problem? How are you going to convince me that you’re going to kill me now if you didn’t do it before?”
I turn the auger and do not answer.
“For fuck’s sake, quit wasting my time with this charade. You said you’re a cop. A cop isn’t going to kill a man in cold blood. You and I both know that. You’re not a killer.”
I want to tell him how wrong he is, but when I had the ax handle poised above my head, ready to crush his skull, I didn’t bring it down. I remember the struggle that froze my arms. Am I not a killer? That can’t be right, because I’ve killed before. Three times. All in the line of duty. I didn’t have a choice—not with any of them. I had no time to deliberate over whether my actions were justified. I followed my training and my instinct. Action and reaction—that was it. I almost pause my drilling as the memories of those faces come flooding back to me, their lifeless eyes staring up at me.
They made me see a psychologist after each of the three killings, a nice woman with a voice that reminded me of a purring cat. She would ask me if I’d been losing sleep or if I had difficulty eating or felt anxious. I lied to her and said no. I didn’t see that it was any of her business. Yes, I’ve had a great many sleepless nights, but those nights had nothing to do with the three people I killed. Their eyes weren’t the eyes that visited my dreams; it wasn’t their voices whispering to me in the dark hollows of my bedroom as I tossed and turned. It was Jenni’s.
I shake my head to clear away those thoughts. My hole is now two feet deep. A slight pain pinches deep in my bicep as I turn the crank. Nothing to worry about yet, but I know it’s the harbinger of a much worse pain to come. I take a moment to examine the hole and rest my arm.
I glance at the man lying on his backside, watching me as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. His death will be different than the others; I know this. I will look him in the eye as I end his life. There will be no heat of battle. I can’t ignore the deliberate nature of what I plan to do. I can’t pretend that this is anything short of vengeance. I tell myself that I have the mettle to finish the job despite the second thoughts that poke at my resolve.
I force my thoughts back to Jenni. I think about my visit to the parking ramp where she died. They had tried to clean her blood away, but I could still see where it had collected in the tiny fissures and cracks. I bent down and ran a finger along the seam of an expansion joint, lifting a thin line of red. Jenni’s blood. I spread it on the palm of my hand, closing my fist to hold her there.
I had promised to protect her. I had failed.
I think about what this bastard took from me, and I start to get mad. I want to get mad. I want to feel the burn of my rage again, have it course through me as it did when I chased him into Canada. I find that rage and turn the auger with renewed vigor, cranking nonstop until I finish the first hole. A guttural bark escapes my throat as the auger blade breaks through to the lake. Cold water comes gushing up through the cut like an overflowing toilet, spreading across my little nest, soaking beneath the snow at the outer edges.
I put the auger in the next starter hole and turn.
“Jesus Christ,” the man says. “Would you just stop?”
My back is already starting to ache, but I keep turning the auger.
“What do you want from me? I don’t know what you want. For fuck’s sake man, stop drilling holes.”
On the western horizon, the thin line of blue sky is pushing the clouds to the southeast. Colder weather is on its way. When it gets here, it’ll drop the temperature below zero and wind will feel like sandpaper against my cheeks. I have a lot of work yet to do.
One down, seven to go.
CHAPTER 14
Minneapolis—Two Days Ago