He reaches subtly for the pocketed zip ties but stills when the Terror twitches defensively. Grant eyes me with uncertainty. We’re supposed to restrain the Terror so Lissa and Lesley can swoop in for questioning. But I get the feeling that any sudden movements could spook him into a second wind, and Ireallydon’t want to get chomped again.
Plus … he’s talking. So I make an executive decision.
“Who is Mr. Page and what does he want?” I demand.
Probably not how you’re supposed to start an interrogation, but oh well.
The man jerks to face me, wide-eyed. And then he doubles over, devolving back into maniacal giggles. I look to Grant for assistance, raising my eyebrows at him. He scrunches his at me.
YOU GO, I mouth at him.
He looks like he wants to argue. But eventually, with a queasy look, he clears his throat.
“Listen,” he says, setting his hands stiffly on his hips. “We can do this the easy way … or the hard way.”
Wow. He wasn’t kidding about his writer’s block if that’s the best he can do.
The Terror runs his tongue over his broken teeth and grins. “The hard way, hm? What’s that?”
“Cutting your head off with toenail clippers,” I say.
Too much.Definitely too much. Grant is sending me awhat the fucklook, and even the Terror looks perplexed.
He claps his hands and rubs them together. “I see, I see,” he says. “In it to win it, are you? Thinking you’ll steal my chance at the grand prize?” He glances between the two of us, clicking his tongue repeatedly. “All that money and blood. But only one can be the best, you know. If you take me out, which of you will kill the other?” He sniffs a big phlegmy snort, considering us, and points to me. “I’m going with Jackie chopping Mr. Beanstalk.”
“Well, obviously,” I mutter.
“Hey,” hisses Grant.
I square my shoulders, aiming for authoritative but not threatening. “We aren’t going to kill you,” I say. “We just want information. If you come with us and cooperate, then—”
“Then?”
Huh. Good question. The obvious answer,then we’ll turn you in and you’ll rot in prison, probably won’t help our case. Other than that, I’m drawing a blank. I really must sign up for an improv class when I get out of this.
Grant speaks up. “Then whatever happens won’t be nearly as bad as what Mr. Page would do to you.”
“YES.That,” I say, pointing to Grant in fervent agreement. “Haven’t you heard what that guy does to the ones who don’t succeed? He doesn’t let them try again. He doesn’t do second chances.”
It’s a bit of a bluff, since we don’t exactly have proof that Mr. Page killed the Pulverizer—but the flicker in the Terror’s gaze isall the confirmation I need. Some level of understanding, peeking through his lunacy. It’s enough to ignite the tiniest spark of hope in me. I chance a small step forward.
“Hekillspeople, you know.”
His lips curl in a mocking smile, despite his stiffened posture. “Who doesn’t?”
“Arguably most people,” says Grant.
I take another step forward, and this time the Terror backs away, closer to Grant. He freezes as he realizes this, darting glances between us as if it’s just sinking in that he’s caught.
“You’ve already failed tonight,” I say. “You’re outnumbered and your time is up. Even if you escaped, Mr. Page would find you. He’d kill you, and he’d make it hurt.”
“So instead,” he says, his eyes narrowing on me, “you want to be allies, hmm?”
“What?No, you creep.”
He twists his face in a grotesque puppy-dog pout.
“But,” I continue, “you get to pick which form of justice you’d rather face. And from the looks of it, your options are the legal system or some monster who would probably treat you to a very drawn-out dissection. So I’ll ask you again: Who is Mr. Page?”
