He manages to lift a hand, finds his head still attached. The hair behind his crown is wet. A vein pulses at his temple. It’s dark.
His throat is so dry he can’t make a sound; when he tries to turn over, his mouth opens with dizziness and nausea, but no noises come out. After a moment, the feelings pass. Now he just feels like shit.
On his side, vision fuzzy, the dark peels back a little. Shapes and colors coalesce farther away. Strips of blackness at left and right are objects – a tall stack of flattened cardboard tied with string, a table with boxes on it. Between the objects, Travis can see moving figures. People.
Sounds switch on, too, although they’re kinda like audio being beamed to him from Sputnik. He blinks, and the voices seep into coherence – male voice, female voice. A voice he recognizes.
Emma.
She’s there, limned in moonlight, the curve of her head defined and kinda pinkish – although maybe everything looks pinkish after waking up from being knocked out, when your bones are throbbing and your eyes are bloodshot. Travis blinks a few times more, to clear his vision.
Emma’s nodding, her body stiff. She’s turned to the left, like she’s talking to the stack of cardboard. Then Travis’s depth perception improves, and it’s clear she’s speaking to someone beyond the cardboard, facing her.
She doesn’t look happy. That’s the first thing that comes into focus, how unhappy she looks. And Travis thinks that’s just shameful, because if anyone deserves to be happy, it’s Emma. When he’s able to scrape himself up off this hard cement floor, he’s going to make it his mission in life to ensure she’s happy.
Which is when audio tunes in properly, and he can hear her words.
‘… more do you want me to say?’ Emma closes her mouth into a tight line to swallow. ‘That talking to you doesn’t make me sick? That you’re just a nice, normal guy?’
‘Iama nice, normal guy.’ The male voice. On the left, behind the cardboard. ‘I just want what everyone wants – the one person for me.’
The owner of the voice steps toward her, and now Travis can see him. A slim, dark-haired white guy with glasses. Polo shirt. Jeans.
And a gun.
Nice, normal guy?Travis is dimly aware that pointing a gun at someone isn’t normal. None of this is normal.
‘You tortured and killed three women.’ Emma’s voice is bleak.
The male voice replies, but Travis has heard enough. Because it’s all coming back. The College Killer. The house. Linda Kittiko in her white dress, screaming behind duct tape.
He has to do something. He has to help Emma.
Getting up is the hardest thing he’s ever done. His head is pounding, splitting apart. When he makes it to hands and knees, he has to stop for a minute so he doesn’t dry retch. His body gets real thin. He’s see-through. Oh Jesus.
Travis focuses on breathing, focuses on the dirt on the floor sanding his palms. Small details. Soon, he comes back. Recalibrates enough to get to his feet.
He sways, puts a hand out. Steadies on the cardboard. His Colt. Where’s his Colt? No Colt. Okay, that’s not great. Just have to work with it.
The College Killer – Peter Kirke: the name drifts back. Kirke has a gun and he doesn’t. What’s the solution?
Travis looks at the cardboard he’s leaning on. It’s a tall stack of other piles. Each pile is tied quarter-wise with thin nylon packing straps. Each pile is bigger than a trash-can lid. About eight inches thick. Big enough for heft.
Big enough for a shield.
Okay, that might work.
Cardboard against a gun. Travis recognizes something alarming about that concept, tugging at him. But it’s weak enough he can bat it away. Helping Emma is more important. And Kirke doesn’t know he’s here, awake.
Travis moves carefully now. Ignores the way his head is screaming at him, ignores the way even his eyeballs are throbbing. Hestraightens his shoulders, rolls his joints, alleviating some stiffness. Eases his hand under the tight packing straps on the topmost cardboard pile, palm-up.
He moves slowly so Kirke won’t notice. Grips the straps, a good grip. Lifts the pile – it’s thick, not too heavy.
Kirke is maybe ten feet away. He’ll really have to go in quick.
Travis Javier Bell – son of a dead father, law enforcement by birth, brave by nature – takes a deep breath, lifts his cardboard shield, and focuses on his target. Rounds his shoulders. Holds his energy, lets it build …
Releases.
