customers.”
His eyes had been drawn to the cleavage. When he looked back up, she met his eye. He didn’t like what he saw, like this old barmaid was somehow able to read him or something. He thought about her tied down and in pain, and the familiar stirring came back to him. He maintained eye contact and tried something.
“I guess you’re right about me,” he said.
“Come again.”
“About my belonging. I came here, I guess, to reflect. And maybe to mourn.”
Lorraine said, “Oh?”
“My friend used to come here. You probably read about him in the paper. His name is Carlton Flynn.”
The flick in her eyes told him that she knew. Oh my, oh my, she knew. Yes, now it was his turn to look at her as though he could see inside and read her every thought.
She knew something valuable.
33
Megan saw the knife arching toward her.
She didn’t have any martial arts training, and even if she had, it probably wouldn’t have helped. There was no time to duck out of the way or block the wrist or whatever would be appropriate for a situation like this.
They say that in moments like this, when violence and destruction are upon you, that time slows down. That wasn’t really true. For that brief moment, as the point of the blade got closer to the hollow of her throat, Megan became something other than an evolved human. Her brain suddenly worked at only its most base. Even an ant, if you step near it, somehow knows to run the other way. We are, at our core, all about survival.
That was what was working here. The primordial part of Megan, the part that existed long before cognitive thought, took over. She didn’t really think or plan or any of that. There was no conscious thought, not at first, but certain defense mechanisms come prebaked into our nervous systems.
She snapped her arm up toward her neck in an attempt to stop the blade from penetrating her throat and ending her life.
The blade sliced deep into her forearm, traveling freely through the flesh until it banged up against the bone.
Megan cried out.
Somewhere again in the deep recesses of her brain, Megan could actually hear the grating sound of metal scraping bone, but it meant nothing to her. Not now anyway.
It was all about survival.
Everything else, including reason, was taking a backseat to man’s most primitive instinct. She was literally fighting for her life, and so one calculation dominated all others: If the attacker pulled the knife free, Megan would end up dead.
All her focus now was on that knife, but somewhere, in the corner of her mind, Megan spotted the blond hair and realized that her attacker was the same woman who’d killed Harry Sutton. She didn’t bother wondering why-that, if she lived, would come later-but there was a fresh surge of anger now mixed in with the fear and panic.
Do not let her get the knife back.
No, time still hadn’t slowed down. Only a second, maybe two, had passed since Megan first caught sight of the knife heading toward her. Again, working purely on instinct, with the blade deeply embedded in her muscle tissue, Megan did something that would normally be unthinkable. She used her free hand to cover the knife, slapping her palm against her own forearm-trapping the razor-sharp blade in her own flesh.
She didn’t think about this-about how she was actually trying to keep a knife in her arm. She only knew that whatever happened, whatever hell or fury was about to rain down on her, there was no way she could let this woman have the knife back.
When the blonde tried to pull the blade free, the blade running against the bone, a searing pain shot through Megan, nearly buckling her knees.
Nearly.
That was the thing with pain. Part of you wants to stop, but if you care about your life-and what person doesn’t? — then that desire can override the network that controls your behavior. It may be something chemical, like adrenaline. It may be something more abstract like will.
But the pain meant nothing to Megan right now.
Survival and rage-they were all that mattered now. Survival, well, that was obvious, but she was also pissed off at everything-at this killer who harmed poor Harry, at Dave for abandoning her, at Ray for giving up on everything. She was furious at whatever deity decided that old people like Agnes should be rewarded at the end of their lives with the torture and indignity of losing their minds. She was livid with herself for not appreciating what she had, for needing to poke at the past, for not understanding that a certain amount of dissatisfaction was part of the human experience-and mostly, she was pissed off that this stupid blond bitch wanted to kill her.
Well, screw that.
Megan let out a scream-an unnerving, primordial, high-pitched shriek. With the blade still trapped in the meat of her forearm, she twisted hard at the waist. The blonde made the mistake of trying to maintain her grip, but Megan’s sudden move knocked her off balance. Just a little.
Just enough to make her stumble forward.
Megan snapped her elbow straight up. The pointy bone landed square on the bottom of the blonde’s nose, jamming it up toward the forehead. There was a cracking sound. Blood spilled down the blonde’s face.
But that didn’t end it.
The blonde, now in pain too, found new strength. She got her balance back and pulled at the blade with all her might. The blade scraped along the bone as though it were whittling it down. Megan still tried to stop it, but the blonde had the momentum now. The blade slid out, popping free from the muscle with an audible, wet sucking sound.
Blood poured from the wound, bubbling out geyserlike.
Megan had always been squeamish. When she was eight, one of her “stepfathers” wanted to see the latest installment of Friday the 13th, and since he couldn’t find a babysitter, he dragged Megan with him. The experience had been scarring. Since then-even now-she had trouble sitting through any R-rated film that contained violence.
None of that mattered now. The sight of blood-both her own and the blonde’s-didn’t make her cringe. In fact, she almost welcomed it.
For a moment, there was no pain in her arm-and then it came in a powerful gush, as though that nerve ending had been blocked like a bend in a garden hose that is suddenly let go.
The pain blinded in a white-hot fury.
With an animal-like snarl, the blonde raised the knife and came at her again.
Again working on instinct, Megan thought, keep the vital organs safe. The throat, the heart, the softest tissue. Megan ducked her chin, closing down access to her neck and chest. She turned her shoulder toward the blow. The point of the blade hit flat on the top of her shoulder bone.
Megan cried out again.
The pain grew, but the knife did little more than penetrate the skin.
Megan unleashed a kick that landed on the blonde’s bent knee, forcing it back the wrong way. The leg bowed and crumbled. The blonde fell and immediately started scrambling to her feet.
For a moment Megan debated running. But no. The blonde wouldn’t stay down. She was, in fact, almost back up on her feet. The blonde was younger and probably stronger and faster, but no matter what-no matter how this was going to end-Megan would be damned if she’d die with a knife in her back while she ran away.
No friggin’ way.
Megan leapt toward her attacker, that one thought back in her head:
Get. The. Knife.
