Cemetery Lake

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The blackout lasts only a moment. I come to and the pain in my head from the impact helps to numb the pain flowing through my body, but only for a few more seconds. The two catch up and the electricity raging along my spine from the Taser gun takes over. Tiny dots have flown out from the Taser, they’re confetti-like and all have serial numbers on them; they’re part of the design so the police can track where they’ve been fired and by whom. Of course that’s no good if the Taser has been stolen or bought illegally. Green says something, but I can’t hear him. Two barbs are buried into my chest, delivering hundreds or even thousands of volts. He turns the gun off, but there’s no relief. He rips the barbs out. The pain drops, but I still can’t move. Blood drips from the barbs onto my shirt. He wraps the cords around the unit and drops it into his briefcase. Then he moves into the seat behind me, pops my seat so I’m leaning back, and drags me into the back of the SUV. It’s like my fantasy is going to come true after all.

He takes some plastic ziplock ties from his briefcase, rolls me onto my front, and a moment later I can hear the little notches clicking into place. I can’t fight him. All I can do is stare ahead in whichever direction he leaves me facing. He moves back to the front. The engine starts, and we roll forward. I try to sit up, but can’t, though some feeling is begging to return. The tinted windows mean nobody can see in. I can’t speak and don’t know what I’d ask if I could.

I can hear other cars. I can hear people talking on the street. The hustle and bustle of city life. But my lawyer doesn’t say a word. He’s still on that mission he looked like he was on when striding across the parking lot. I can smell upholstery and sweat. I can taste blood. My arms and legs are tingling. I can tighten my fists and wiggle my toes. The cramp in my muscles starts to relax. I try to struggle against the plastic ties, but it’s no good. They dig into my wrists and ankles.

“Where are we going?” I ask, the words coming out smoother than I would have thought.

“You tried to kill my daughter.”

So my words may be smooth, but his words don’t make sense. “What?”

“My daughter, you asshole. You ran into her last night and now she might die.”

I don’t answer him. I think about Quentin James, I think about how what I did last night was just like what he did to my family. I think about how the transition from Theodore Tate’s life into Quentin James’s is complete. “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“Shut up,” he says.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask.

“I said shut up!” he shouts, and he pulls over and reaches toward me.

Christ, there’s a needle in his hand.

“You struggle and it’s only going to be worse,” he says, and he’s right because I do struggle and it does get worse. The needle breaks off in my arm before he can push any of the fluid into me. “Bastard,” he yells, then he starts clubbing me in the head with something, I don’t know what, and everything goes dim as the darkness rushes back.