blade.
“Easy,” he said. “I want you to relax. It’ll hurt more.” Orson moved the knife two inches to the left of my nipple and inserted the blade an eighth of an inch. The metal was brutally cold, and I shivered as I watched him slit a sloppy circle, four inches in diameter. Blood pooled in my navel, and Orson spoke to me while he carved, his voice flowing psychotic peace.
“Two-thirds of your heart lies to the left of your sternum. So I’m giving myself an outline to work with.” He sighed. “I’d have taught you this, you know. On someone else. Look at that.” He held the tip of the knife under my eye so I could see my blood sizzling on the amber blade. “I know you don’t feel anything yet,” he said. “That’s the power of adrenaline. Your pain receptors are blocked.” He smiled. “But that won’t last much longer. They can only mask so much pain.”
“Orson,” I pleaded, on the brink of tears now. “What about the gift?”
He looked down at me, puzzled; then, remembering, he said, “Ah, the gift. You nosy bastard.” He put his lips to my ear. “Willard was the gift.”
He braced his left hand against my forehead and gripped the knife in his other. “Sometimes I wonder, Andy, what if he’d picked you?”
Someone knocked on the back door. Orson stiffened. “I want you to say something,” he whispered as he stood up. “Swear to God, I’ll keep you alive for days.” Setting the knife on the stool, he walked to the door and drew the Glock.
Percy Madding’s voice came through the door: “Dave, you in there? You all right?”
I strained to sit up on the plastic.
Orson fired eight shots through the wood at waist level. Looking back at me, he smiled. “That, Andy, is what you call—”
A shotgun report blasted through the door, and Orson’s chest caught the full load of double-aught buckshot. It knocked him off his feet and slammed him on his back as if a man had thrown him. Orson struggled to his hands and knees, stunned, staring at me as sanguine globs dropped out of his chest onto the concrete. Percy burst through the door and kicked the gun out of his hands. My brother crawled toward me, then eased back down onto the concrete, hissing shoal, sputtering breaths.
Leaning his double-barreled shotgun beside the door, Percy approached the plastic and squatted beside me. From the shallowness of his breathing, I could tell he’d been hit. He looked strangely at the pole, the leash, the sheet of plastic, the ragged bloody circle in my chest.
“He got the key to these cuffs on him?” he asked gruffly, twisting his snowy mustache. His voice was strong, but his hands shook. When I nodded, he walked over to Orson and dug through his pockets until he found the key. He told me to roll over, and then, after unlocking the handcuffs, he unsheathed a bowie knife from his belt and cut the rope that bound my feet.
“You hit?” I asked. He touched his side. Down mushroomed out of a hole in his camouflage vest.
“Just a graze, though,” he said as I unbuckled the collar. “I see you took one in the shoulder. Them hollow-points, ain’t they?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then it’s still in there.” Percy walked over to Orson and pressed two fingers into the side of his neck. “This your brother?” he asked, waiting on a pulse. I nodded. “What in holy hell was he doing to you?” I didn’t answer. “Reckon we better get us to a doctor.”
I came to my feet and, starting for the back door, said, “I have to get some things from the cabin first. Would you mind helping me?”
“You bet.”
Leaving Orson’s vacant eyes open, Percy took his shotgun as he followed me through the obliterated door, back out into the snow. He yelled something about my friend, but my panting drowned his voice, and I didn’t stop to ask what he’d said. My shoulder burned now.
A snowmobile idled in front of the cabin. When I reached the front porch, I glanced back and saw that Percy lagged fifteen feet behind, holding his side with his left hand, the shotgun in his right.
Upon entering the cabin, I closed the door behind me. In the perfect gloom, I could see nothing. Neither will Percy. I peered out the window, watched Percy wading through the snow, his body illuminated by the snowmobile’s single headlight. Receding into the shadows so he wouldn’t see