Final Girls(105)

“Three.”

There’s no hesitation. He says it with the same ease in which he orders his coffee. I was hoping for at least a pause.

Three. The strangled woman on the side of the road and the two campers stabbed in their tent. All of them were mentioned in the article I found at Lisa’s house. I think she knew what happened to them. I think she died because of it.

“It’s a sickness,” Coops says. “You need to know that, Quincy. I never wanted to do those things.”

I sob. When snot starts leaking from my nose, I don’t bother to wipe it away. “Then why did you?”

“I’ve spent my whole life in these woods. Hiking, hunting, doing things I was too young to be doing. I lost my virginity on that big rock up on the hill.” Coop cringes at the memory, hating himself. “She was the school slut. Willing to do it with anyone. Even me. When it was over, I puked in the bushes. Christ, I was ashamed of what I’d done. So ashamed that I thought about snapping her neck right there on that rock, just so she wouldn’t tell anyone. It was only fear of getting caught that kept me from doing it.”

I shake my head and put a hand to my temple. With every word, a piece of my heart breaks off and falls away.

“Please stop.”

Coop keeps talking, his words carrying the relieved rush of confession.

“But I was curious. God help me, I was. I thought the military would shake it out of me. That killing for my country would make me not want to do it. But it didn’t work. All the messed-up things I saw over there only made it worse. And not long after I got back home I found myself back in these woods, in a car, getting sucked off by some whore trying to hitchhike her way to New York. That time I wasn’t afraid. War had beat all the fear out of me. That time I actually did it.”

I keep my expression blank, willing myself not to show the fear and disgust churning inside me. I don’t want him to know what I’m thinking. I don’t want to make him mad.

“I swore I’d only do it that one time,” Coop says. “That I got it out of my system. But I kept coming back to these woods. Usually with a knife. And when I saw those two campers, I knew the sickness hadn’t left me.”

“What about now?”

“I’m trying, Quincy. I’m trying real hard.”

“You weren’t trying that night,” I say, trembling with desire to glare at him, to show him how much I hate him. There’s nothing left of my heart. It’s been reduced to knife-like shards.

“I was testing myself,” Coops says. “Going to this cabin. That’s how I’d do it. I’d park down the road and walk up here, peeking in windows, both hoping and dreading I’d see something that would bring the sickness back. Nothing ever did. Until I saw you.”

I think I might pass out. I pray that I do.

“I was supposed to be looking for the kid that escaped from the psych hospital,” he says. “Instead, I started circling this place, ready for another test. That’s when I found you in the woods. With the knife. You walked right past me. So close I could have reached out and touched you. But you were too angry to see me. You were so angry, Quincy. And so fiercely sad. It was beautiful.”

“I wasn’t going to do what you think I was,” I say, hoping he believes me. Hoping that one day I’ll believe it, too. “I dropped that knife.”

“I know. I watched you do it once he showed up. Then you left. And he left. But the knife stayed. So I picked it up.”

Coop takes another step closer. So close I can smell him. A mix of sweat and aftershave. I’m hit with flashes of last night. Him on top of me. Inside me. His scent now is exactly the same as then.

“I never meant for all of that to happen, Quincy. You’ve got to believe me. I just wanted to see where you were headed with that knife. I wanted to know what made someone as perfect as you so angry. So I went to the rock and saw them, and I knew that’s what upset you. The two of them screwing like filthy animals. That’s what they looked like, you know. Two grunting, dirty animals that needed to be put down.”

Coop lightly swings the hand that holds the gun, his elbow bending and unbending, as if he’s not quite willing to point it at me.

“But then your friend ran,” he says. “Craig. That was his name, right? And I couldn’t let him get away, Quincy. I just couldn’t. And there you were. And your friends. And I knew I had to get rid of all of you.”

“Why didn’t you kill me?” I’m crying more now. Tears of shame and sorrow and confusion soak my face. “You killed the others. Why not me?”

“Because I could tell you were special,” Coop says slowly, as if he’s still amazed by me all these years later. “And I was right. You should have seen yourself running through those woods, Quincy. Strong even then. Even more, you were running toward me, wanting me to help you.”

He gives me a bright-eyed look of admiration. Of awe.

“I had no right to snuff that out.”

“Even though there was a chance I could suddenly remember it was you?”

“Yes,” Coop says. “Even then. Because I knew what was happening. I had created another Lisa Milner. Another Samantha Boyd.”

“You knew who they were,” I say.

“I’m a cop. Of course I knew,” Coops says. “The Final Girls. Such strong, willful women. And I had made one. Me. In my mind, it made up for all the other bad things I’d done. And I swore I’d never let anything bad happen to you. I made sure you’d always need me. Even when it looked like you were drifting away from me.”