I have one complex objective now.
Jude and I must get out of this place, alive. I want to meet my son. But I have to get Sam out too, and Molly. I may have to kill Miller to accomplish this. I’m uneasy because the last time I saw him, some twelve hours ago, I shot him in the eye and he’s bound to be angry about it.
It’s early, maybe seven.
I start a pot of coffee and go to check on Molly. Her face is pale yet from the loss of blood, but her pulse is strong and she’s breathing normally. Blood is strange. Donate a pint of it to the Red Cross and you go home lightheaded but otherwise feeling fine. The nurses give you a cookie. But you spill that same pint into somebody’s bed and it’s a fucking freakshow. I fetch myself a cup of black coffee and return to the window. I’m not feeling so insane as last night and I want to sit with Molly. I want to watch her sleep. Irrational, no doubt. Drug related. But I am weirdly cheerful. I feel like a guy who’s on his way to the airport, like a guy who’s going home. I feel high. Molly sleeps.
I find myself floating around the house, peering aimlessly out the windows. On the west side of the house there’s a little Japanese rock garden overgrown with weeds and yellow wildflowers. There are a couple of wrought-iron chairs and a hammock. It looks like a nice place to think and I am about to go try out that hammock when Daphne walks into frame, carrying her tea. I immediately hunker down to watch her from the window. Daphne eyes the hammock, but I figure she’s afraid she will spill her tea because she sits in one of the chairs instead. She now wears the same gauze white dress she wore at the Paradise, thin and translucent and it clings to her in such a way that it could cause madness. I take a shivering breath and tell myself to banish evil thoughts.
But it won’t hurt to watch her. I light a cigarette and make myself comfortable.
Daphne isn’t doing anything interesting, though. Daphne is drinking her tea and daydreaming about the past, maybe the future. Daphne is smiling, watching a few birds hop around the garden and I am about to go back to the living room when Miller walks into view, carrying one of the spear guns I saw in the garage. He wears a patch over his left eye. The hair on my neck tingles but somehow I just sit there. I just sit there. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I tell myself he’s on his way to see me, to put an aluminum spear in my heart, and he’s just stopping to say hello to Daphne and after a few pleasantries, he’ll move along. Daphne stands up and her lips part in the shape of hello. Miller smiles and bows and she offers him her hand and now Miller moves very close to her. He violates her space. He kisses her hand and she laughs, as if he’s being silly. Miller says something to her but I can only see the side of his face and I probably couldn’t read his lips anyway. Daphne stands with the teacup in one hand, Miller holding the other. Daphne is smiling but the smile is fading, slowly fading. Miller shows her the spear gun and Daphne’s brow furrows politely, as if she is thinking yes, that is a very nice spear gun but why are you showing it to me. At which point Miller shrugs and shoots her in chest. The spear plunges deep enough to come out the back and the sound it makes is like smashing a pumpkin with a hammer and even as I run for the door I imagine I can hear the air and fluids hissing from her body.
Through the kitchen and out the back door, running blind. Feet hammering like mad on the wooden deck and from the sound of it you would think there were three of me. I still have Miller’s gun, with two real bullets in it, and I would love to shoot him with one. I swing myself over the handrail to the ground below and because I’m high and deprived of sleep and something of a fool, I come down on that fucked-up left ankle from last night. The pain is electric and I roll into a fetal position. But not for long. I don’t want to be found like this.
I pull myself together and come limping around the side of the house, gun in hand, listening for him, sniffing the air for Miller and automatically my eyes go to Daphne’s body. Twisted, unrecognizable, her body is contorted so that at first glance she appears to have one leg and two broken arms and no head. Her white dress is black with blood and now I see that the spear indeed stabbed though her just below the ribcage and came out the other side, and the words pig in a poke flash helplessly through my head. I stare at her for a long breathless moment, and then there is the crunch of gravel behind me and a baseball bat hits me in the right shoulder hard enough to break me.
Oh, the way the brain functions.
Because even while getting my ass kicked, my brain is happy to do some fast calculations and let me know exactly how Miller got the drop on me. He heard me coming. He knew I was watching, and killed Daphne for my benefit.
Or maybe not.
He has the bloodlust, no question, and maybe he killed her purely for the giggles but he probably heard me crashing through the kitchen and out onto the deck. He certainly heard me moaning and cursing over my fucked ankle, and so he went around the house to get behind me, stopping in the garage to grab his Louisville Slugger.
Meanwhile.
The right arm is crippled but somehow I’m still holding that gun and a kid could tell you I’m gonna shoot myself in the foot, any minute now. I try to transfer it to my left hand but Miller just shrugs and hits me with some kind of karate kick that spins me around like a toy soldier. The gun sails away and disappears into a yellow and brown carpet of fallen leaves.
Fucked. Phineas is fucked.
Miller is hellish pleased with himself. He dances away from me, bouncing on his toes. He sends another kick my way, this time at my head. I hobble sideways and manage to take it on the side of the head, instead of directly between the eyes. He seems annoyed that I haven’t fallen down yet, and frankly I’m surprised. He doesn’t say anything though, and I thank him for that. I hate guys who make a lot of wisecracks while they’re pounding on you.
I back away from him, breathing hard. My vision is screwy and everything is on a diagonal. Miller hops toward me, grinning. And I move to his left, his blind side. He is not used to the eye patch and this gives me an opening to hit him square in the face with a little jab that causes his nose to bleed and pisses him off something awful, and Miller promptly hits me in the chest with one of those karate punches that I understand conceptually but don’t know how to throw, the punch that aims for a spot somewhere beyond the point of initial impact so that the fist punches through you like a lead ball and reaches maximum density somewhere behind you, knocking you four maybe five feet backward and in the meantime sucking all of the air out of your body. Then he follows it up with another savage kick to the head and baby I am down.
The fight is over and I want to tell him to finish it. If your guy is down you don’t stick around for anger management. You snap his neck and move on. But Miller is just getting started. He has issues, and he wants to work them out. He kicks me mercilessly, again and again. I wish I could tell him that he’s wasting his time, that I can’t feel anything because I’m slipping into shock and one section of my brain is already experiencing a tasty in- flight movie in which Michelle Pfeiffer exposes some righteous flesh. And after a while, he just gets tired of kicking me. He picks up the baseball bat and takes a few swings, but his breathing is labored and apparently he doesn’t want to kill me just yet, because he suddenly loses interest and tosses the bat aside. Then he crouches down and sticks his vile tongue in my ear.
The indignity. I’m going to kill him for that, if I ever walk again.
I’m slipping down a black tunnel and the last thing I see is Miller, upside down and sideways and stuffing Daphne’s body into a red, white, and blue duffel bag and dragging her out of sight, presumably to deposit her in the grave dug by Huck and I reckon it’s handy to have a grave dug in advance.
I wake on hard, cold wood, a damp T-shirt wadded into a pillow under my head. Bright cruel needles of sunlight and now there is a face looming over me, Molly’s face.
Are you okay?
Uh. I don’t know.
Don’t try to move, yet.
I give her a feeble smile and run a fast systems check on the body. The fingers and toes are responding, which bodes well. The ankle is still sore but less noticeable now, what with all the other bruised and broken body parts howling for a little attention. The skull is a bit tender and I allow for the possibility of fluid on the brain. The right arm is numb and sore but unbroken. I can move the fucker, anyway. The face has that tight leather feel that I personally associate with dried blood. That would be from the previously mentioned head wound. I estimate maybe four broken ribs and that’s all for today.
I’m a peach.
