He was uncharacteristically talkative for a serial killer, like it felt good for him to share this with someone.
I smiled as if impressed by his wit. “You could do me right here and no one would know.”
The man shook his head, shifted to a more comfortable position. “Fuck no, that would be too risky. I … wait … you think I’m stupid. It’s not like you’re going to get out of this. You’re the stupid one.”
“You may be right. But how can you be sure?”
“Number one, we’re still in my van, and, number two, I’m bigger than you are even if you did get lucky with that blade just now.”
While he had been talking, I had begun circling the bladed stick with one hand while the other, fingers up and thumb out, framed him. There was enough head room for me to rise up on one knee while the blade circled slowly, smoothly, in a slow-motion way that focused me to the point where I could feel the weight of the air between us. I was killing a little time while I figured out how best to disable him. Distract him with one or two more minor cuts and then break his collarbone, I decided.
He watched me, thoughtfully wiping his palm on his nylon shorts as he said, “Hey, those look like ninja moves. Get it? Old lady ninja. Ha!”
“I’ll give you old,” I whispered and darted forward. I swear I hadn’t intended to do this, but he rose up at the same time and my blade sliced at just the wrong spot on his thigh. He watched like a rubbernecker at his own accident as the arterial spurt shot a good six inches and pooled in the grooves of the floor. “Oh shit,” I said.
“Help me,” he groaned as he fell back against the door and passed out.
“What do I look like, a paramedic?” I said to no one, but threw his body down flat, tore the yarn from around his neck, shook off the condom, and formed a tourniquet around his thigh above the wound. My garden gloves made tying the string difficult but instinct kept them on. With some effort I rolled him over on his back and sat cross-legged beside him on the shower curtain to avoid getting slimed by the blood pooled on the floor.
He was coming around slowly, still alive but too groggy from the plunge of blood pressure. I didn’t have time to waste on the usual EMT process. Instead, I snapped the bone in his little finger and he bounded back with a shout.
“Hurts, doesn’t it? Listen,” I said. “I’ve accidentally severed your femoral artery. No, don’t bother to look. I put a tourniquet around your leg to slow the loss of blood, but if I don’t tie off that artery within,” I checked my watch, “thirty minutes you’ll die anyway. Now tell me where you put the bodies.”
“I’m bleeding to death.”
“Yes, but slowly. Tell me where the bodies are.”
“There, there’s a sewing kit up on that shelf.”
“First talk, and I’ll keep you from losing your leg. I know how, but you’re going to have to work with me.”
“They’ll get you for this.”
I considered that he might be right, but he didn’t need to know. “It’s self-defense. Or at worst accidental manslaughter. Tell me where the bodies are.”
“I’ll say you attacked me.”
“Look at you. Then look at me.”
The man groaned.
“I’m getting pissed and you’re dying. Not a good use of time. Now tell me where you threw the bodies, you sick fuck.”
“Bodies…” he paused as if considering what to say. Then he started to whimper something and I leaned forward, close enough to be repelled by the sour smell of stale beer, to hear something that sounded like, “Yer dead…”
Which seemed fairly confident for a man in his condition. But I had overestimated his weakness and let down my guard. He lurched to his left side and head-butted me, making me see a flash of tiny lightning. While I shook myself, he managed to roll over, pinning me under his weight, but couldn’t do much more than that. His hands tried to hold me, but weakened by his injury, they couldn’t get enough purchase to do any good. His teeth the only weapon left to him, he clamped down on my upper arm. I shrieked but was pinned against the wall, legs crossed, no way to throw him or get out of the way. The coarse denim of my blouse wouldn’t hold