the middle. The rip was fresh, fuzzed by threads, exposing white underwear, loose pale flesh, blue veins. Auburn hair. The same kind of bruises and scratches as the girl's. One eye purple and swollen shut. Red ball in her mouth, too.
Her other eye undamaged, but also closed.
The gun jammed against her left temple was small and square-edged and chrome-plated.
Next to her, in the right-hand chair, sat Ardis Peake, holding the weapon. From our vantage, only half his body was visible. Long white fingers around the trigger. He had on his Starkweather khakis. White sneakers that looked brand-new. Big sneakers. Oversized feet.
Tormenting the auburn-haired woman, but showing no sign he enjoyed it. His eyes were closed, too.
Beyond enjoyment into reverie?
The man holding the video camera prodded him. Handheld camera, compact, dull black, not much larger than a hardcover book. It sprayed a beam of creamy-white light.
Peake didn't budge, and the cameraman gave him a sharper prod. Peake opened his eyes, rolled them, licked his lips. The cameraman got right in front of him, capturing each movement. Whir. Peake slumped again. The cameraman let the camera drop to his side. The lens tilted upward and the beam climbed, hitting the upper edges of the rock and projecting the eye-dot onto the mountainside. The cameraman shifted and the dot-eye died.
Milo's jaw bunched. He edged around to get a fuller view. I stayed with him.
No one else in the clearing. The cameraman kept his back to us.
Tall, narrow, with a small, white, round, shaved head that glowed with sweat. Black silk shirt, buccaneer sleeves rolled to the elbows, black jeans, dusty black boots with thick rubber soles. Some kind of designer label ran diagonally across the right patch pocket of the jeans. From the left patch dangled the butt of another chrome automatic.
Milo and I sidled farther. Froze as gravel spat under us. No reaction from the cameraman. Too busy mumbling and cursing and prodding Peake.
Manipulating Peake.
Sitting Peake up straighter. Poking Peake's face, trying to mold expression. Adjusting the gun in Peake's hand.
Adhering to Peake's hand.
Strips of transparent tape bound the weapon to Peake's spindly fingers. Peake's arm was held unnaturally rigid by a tripod that had been rigged to support the limb. Tape around the arm.
Forced pose.
Milo narrowed his eyes, raised his rifle, aimed, then stopped as the cameraman moved suddenly.
Half-turning, touching something.
A tight, downslanting line that cut through night-space.
Nylon fishing filament, so thin it was virtually invisible from this distance.
Running from the gun's trigger to a wooden stake hammered into the dirt.
Slack line. One sharp tug would force Peake's finger backward on the trigger, propel the bullet directly into the auburn-haired woman's brain.
Special effects.
The cameraman ran a fingertip along the line, stepped back. Peake's gun arm remained stiff but the rest of him was rubbery. Suddenly a wave of tardive symptoms took hold of him and he began licking his lips, rolling his head, fluttering his eyelids. Moving his ringers just enough to twang the line.
The cameraman liked that. Focused on the woman. The gun. Back to the woman. Seeking the juicy shot.
Peake stopped moving. The line sagged.
The cameraman cursed and kicked Peake hard in the shins. Peake didn't react. Slumped again.
'Go for it, fucker.' Low-pitched gravel voice. 'Do it, man.'
Peake licked his lips. Stopped. His legs began to shake. The rest of him froze.
'Okay! Keep those knees going-don't stop, you psycho piece of shit.'
Peake didn't react to the contempt in the cameraman's tone.
Somewhere else, completely. The cameraman walked over and slapped him. The auburn-haired woman opened her eyes, shuddered, closed them immediately.
The cameraman had stepped back, was focused on Peake. Peake's head whipped back, bobbled. Drool flowed from his mouth.
'Fucking meat puppet,' said the cameraman.
The sound of his voice brought a whimper from the auburn-haired woman. The crepe around her uninjured eye compressed into a spray of wrinkles as she bore down, struggling to block out the moment. The cameraman ignored her, preoccupied with Peake.
No other movements in the clearing. The brown-skinned girl was in a position to see us, but she showed no sign of recognition. Frozen eyes. Fear paralysis or drugs or both.
Milo trained the rifle on the back of the cameraman's head. Thick ringers around his trigger. But the cameraman was only inches from the fishing line. If he fell the wrong way, the gun would fire.
Tucking the camera under his arm, the filmmaker positioned Peake some more. Peake's arms dangled; he threw his head back. More drool. He inhaled noisily, coughed, blew snot through his nose.
The cameraman yanked the camera up and filmed it. Slapped Peake again, said, 'Some monster you are.'
Peake's head dropped.
Unbound. Free to leave the chair, but constrained by something stronger than hemp.
The cameraman filmed, shifting attention from the woman to the gun to Peake, still inches from the rigged line.
More lip-licking and head-rolling from Peake. His eyelids slammed upward, showcasing two white ovals.
'Good, good-more eye stuff, give me eye stuff.'
The cameraman was talking louder now, and Milo used the sound for cover, charging out into the clearing, raising his rifle.
The cameraman's right thigh nudged the line. Made it bob. He realized it. Laughed. Did it again, watched the pull on Peake's hand.
Peake was able to pull the trigger, but even tardive movement hadn't caused him to do so.
Resisting?
Again, his head dropped.
The cameraman said, ' Where's good help when you need it?' Taking hold of Peake's ear, he shoved Peake's head upward, filmed the resultant gaping stare. Caressing the line with his own index finger as the camera panned the length of Peake's body, moving slowly from furrowed skull to oversized feet.
Disproportionate feet. Puppet.
I understood. Insight was worthless.
I readied my gun, but stayed in place. Milo had inched closer to the cameraman, fifteen or so feet to his rear. With exquisite care, he lifted the rifle to his shoulder, trained it once again on the cameraman's neck. Sniper's target: the medulla oblongata, lower brain tissue that controlled basic body process. One clean shot and respiration would cease.
The cameraman said, 'All right, Ardis, I've got enough background. One way or the other, let's do the cunt.'
The auburn-haired woman opened her good eye. Saw Milo. Moved her mouth around the red ball, as if trying to spit it out. I knew who she was. Sheriff Haas's wife-Marvelle Haas.
Mail on the table, one day, maybe two. One car gone, the wife left alone.
She began shivering violently.
The young girl remained glazed.
The cameraman turned toward Marvelle, gave us a full view of his profile. Deep lines scored the sides of a lipless mouth. Grainy, tanned skin, several shades darker than the white, hairless head. The head accustomed to wigs. Small but aggressive chin. Beak nose sharp enough to draw blood. No facial fat, but loose jowls, stringy neck. Forearms wormed by veins. Big hands. Dirty nails. Derrick Crimmins was turning steadily into his father. His father had been a sour, grasping man, but nothing said he'd been anything other than a flawed human being.
Here in front of me was monstrosity.
