Endings by Linda Richards (portable ebook reader .TXT) 📗

wind on shutters. I hear night insects, making a certain type of chatter. I hear him—gently, gently—transfer his weight from one foot to the other. And then back. I listen, but I don’t hear anything from the dog. I try not to be concerned, but I am.

“What are you doing?” he says after a while.

I take a full minute to formulate an answer. And then, unhurried, though that is difficult, too. “It’s been difficult. Coming out here. Following you. Finding you. I’m tired. I am resting.”

“Why aren’t you afraid?” Another shuffle, shuffle. And, maybe—faintly?—panting from the dog. I hope so.

And, of course, I am afraid, but I am gratified that it does not show.

“Should I be?”

He looks at me. Just looks at me, straight on. I think he might say something, but then he seems to change his mind. He takes half a step back and squeezes his eyes shut. Opens them. “I am tired now,” he says finally. “I have to sleep.” He still hasn’t answered me and his exhaustion seems to have come on quickly. I don’t know what any of it means. Is it loss of blood, I wonder hopefully. Or some malaise of spirit that drains him suddenly. I don’t ask. Instead, I nod, as though I am less concerned and less curious than I am. As though I understand fully where his words might lead, though I don’t.

There is an inexplicable moment where I wonder if he will lie down next to me and I fight a frightened revulsion. But then he nods again, seems to struggle with himself, then shuffles out the door.

I have this amazing moment filled with the inexplicable feeling of freedom. He will sleep and I will slip away. I breathe to calm myself. In a very little while, all of this will be behind me. I can almost feel the bullet I will kill him with: the force of it leaving the Bersa. The finishing of the job I should have completed when I had the chance. I am one stop from ebullience.

My excitement is short-lived. Before I can collect myself, he is back. The leg irons in his hand. There seems to be no escaping them. They look like the same ones I put on him in the RV, but I know that can’t be right. The same ones, more recently, he had around the neck of the dog. I feel a coldness creep over me.

He tosses them in my direction. Stands at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed.

“You know what to do,” he says. And it is then that I realize this is going to be a dance. He has every move planned. This is just the first one.

He isn’t holding a gun, as I had been, but he is much larger than I am and not unpracticed with his hands. We both know that’s enough.

I attach the irons as instructed, trying while I do so to stay alert to see if I can do it some half-assed way so I can free myself after a while. But there will be no easy out, not with him standing there watching me carefully. There can be no shortcuts.

When I’m finished, he secures the irons to the bed, then leaves without another word, looking as exhausted as he claimed he was. He seems to sway on his feet. I know it isn’t true, but he appears to be barely able to stand; exhaustion pours off him in waves. He stumbles out the door, and I know I’ll be alone for a while.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

I LIE THERE, unmoving. Something is happening. I can feel it.

I lie there, feeling the beat of my heart, the blood in my veins. Praying for a stillness of hand, of spirit. Praying for strength to see this thing all the way through.

Whatever that means.

The dog creeps to the side of the bed, licks my hand. I am relieved to see he appears to be fine. It was what I had hoped. I’d heard him cry out, but I hadn’t heard anything crack or break. And, yes: to my eyes the dog appears to be okay. For the moment, at least.

“Poor pup,” I whisper while I scratch behind his ears. “Poor little guy.” He seems almost to swoon with the pleasure of the attention. I think back to the day I got him, his fat little puppy body wiggling up to his young master, dead on his own stoop. Should I have left the pup there? It would have spared him all of this, whatever this might be. Dogs are such simple things, really. I wish for some of that simplicity for myself. I wish for something to be easy. I don’t know what that looks like anymore. Easy. I’ve lost the ability even to wish for it.

The dog settles down next to the bed and then there is nothing but waiting. Waiting for what? At first, I am not sure.

I don’t know how far away Atwater’s resting place is, but I don’t take any chances. Before I do anything that will make noise, I give him the chance to fall asleep.

Once I’m as certain as I can be that he is no longer awake, I explore as far as my shackles will allow. It isn’t far. I can reach the nightstands. I look inside them to see if there is anything of use, but there is nothing. I find a notebook and a pen, and while I’ve been told that the pen is mightier than the sword, I’m certain that reasoning won’t work here.

I can’t quite reach the dresser, but I figure that, even if I could, there would be nothing very helpful in there. The room looks as though no one has lived here for years. There’s a small crack at the edge of the mirror over the vanity. Cracks on the wall. A couple of the dresser drawers are open—gaping—and the closet door is open, showing a whole lot of