The Killing Hour

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

My world is upside down.

I remember seeing those contraptions on TV where you can hang upside down from a bar, clipped on with special shoes. It’s supposed to be relaxing, to do something positive for your body-maybe realign your spine or soul or consolidate your positive energy. It’s pretty obvious the person who invented it wasn’t soaked in lighter fluid at the time.

Cyris has his eyes fixed on me, but he’s not really seeing me. I think he’s gone somewhere, he’s gone to whatever place his mind sometimes takes him. Could be a happy place, but I hate to think what a happy place for a guy like this could be. He has my KA-BAR knife tucked into the waistband of his pants.

The fluid smells like eroding batteries. It comes at me in sharp little streams, splashing onto my face. My nose begins to burn. It leaks into my sinuses as I cough. The back of my mouth feels like it’s been ripped to shreds. My eyes are burning a hole through to the back of my skull.

The pain spreads like ripples in a pool of gasoline. I cry out and clutch my hands to my nose. I start shaking my head, hard enough to become disorientated. I’m desperate to suck in more air, but I can’t. Cyris keeps spraying more fluid at me. I wriggle around on the rope like a worm on a hook, knowing the more I scream, the more fluid he’ll get into my mouth. Then suddenly he stops. He’s either got tired or he’s thought of something else to do. He takes a few steps back and holds a hand against the side of his head. Does he have the same headache I have? My breath tastes of fire and feels ragged, as if I’m swallowing a well-used chisel.

I start to choke. He starts to laugh. I wonder how far away the police are. I phoned them just before I got here. I fought with the decision the whole drive. They’ll come here, won’t they? All I have to do is keep Cyris talking.

“It’ll hurt more once I’ve lit it. You do know that, right?”

“Listen, Cyris-”

“They say the true torture is in the anticipation. I’m interested in your opinion.”

I look over to Jo. I blink away the tears, but more keep coming. A sharp pain continues to race back and forth from behind my nose to my brain.

I grit my teeth, then spit out a sentence. “I know why you killed them.”

He shrugs. “What are you talking about?”

“Frank McClory paid you to kill his wife.” My head is throbbing. Just how long can a person live hanging upside down? Before being set on fire? “Frank knew he’d be the prime suspect so he wanted you to kill Kathy in a unique way. Killing Luciana diverted focus away from Frank because it made the women look like they’d caught the attention of a complete psychopath. He didn’t want them killed at home because he didn’t want to be the first one on the scene. He wanted them found together, but I ruined your plans.”

“The plans,” he says, his burnt face contorting so he can fit the words out in one large clump. “You-ruined-more-than-just-my-plan, you-ruined-my-fucking-life.” Then, relaxed all of a sudden, he’s waving his hands like a conductor, as if his small outburst never happened. “Go on.”

“This sadistic lunatic thing is just a facade to hide what you really are.”

“And what would that be?”

“A cold-blooded killer. A paid hit man.”

He starts clapping. A slow, patronizing round of applause that would make stage actors sick to their stomachs. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “the one and only Charlie Feldman.”

“I just hope my handwriting wasn’t too messy on that hundred-dollar note.”

The clapping stops as if some invisible force has just grabbed his arms and frozen them in the air. His lips become a thin scar. They stay that way for a few more seconds before forming into a grin. It becomes the sort of smile I’d expect to see on a demon.

“You took my money?”

I nod and my body begins to swing around in a small arc.

“You took the money.” He starts to laugh, but I doubt he finds it that funny.

“You killed Frank for nothing,” I point out.

He seems to think about this. “His bad luck, I suppose.”

I suppose it was. Just like it was Kathy and Luciana’s bad luck. Just like it’s Jo’s bad luck, and mine. What can you do against it? Carry a four-leaf clover? A gun?

“Do you know what I had to go through to earn that?” he asks.

“I know.”

“You think it was easy?”

“I think you enjoyed it.”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I don’t enjoy any of this. It’s just a job.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette lighter. He runs his thumb over the metal wheel; it strikes the flint, a few sparks appear, then a flame. He seems pleased with himself. The look on his damaged face suggests he’s taking all the credit for inventing fire. He walks over to Jo. Her eyes widen and she tries to push herself further into the tree. The miracle of camouflage is no kinder to Jo than it was to Kathy.

“Leave her alone.”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead he picks up the lighter fluid and sprays more of it into my face.

My head starts to pound, and seconds later vomit erupts from my mouth, spraying over my nose and eyes, onto my forehead and into my hair. My nose becomes full of it and the taste consumes my mouth, ridding it, at least, from the taste of lighter fluid. I choke as lumps of digested pasta and coffee flow from me, but pieces get lodged in my mouth and throat and stick beneath my tongue. I wipe my hands at my face and spit out what I can. Cyris pulls himself away and stumbles onto his butt to avoid the mess. He sits there, one hand across his wounded stomach, the other wiping at his face.

I swing in a bigger arc and my limbs come close to breaking. Even though I’m upside down, my hanging jacket isn’t, and vomit starts to pool into the creases and drip into pockets. I can see it pooling in the inside pocket, on top of the Swiss Army knife I bought from Floyd. I think of the game-show host. He tells me if I’m good enough I can still get hold of one of the few remaining prizes up for grabs. He asks me if I’m man enough to do any grabbing.

I pull the jacket closer and reach into the pocket.

“Hey,” Cyris says, and I look over at him. He’s gotten up and walked over to Jo.

He has the KA-BAR knife in his hand. Where in the hell are the police?

“Don’t,” I tell him.

But he does.

He drives the blade deep into her.