The Second Girl(88)

He stretches his neck out, trying to keep his head up. His eyes are glazed by the cold water. They fix on me, but only for a second. It’s an odd look.

I put my finger on the trigger, and then his eyes turn away from me and toward the sky. It’s sudden. I know he realizes I’m not the one to give him grace, and so he doesn’t want to see it coming.

I think about leaving him to the filthy river and let it do the job instead. Just turn around and walk away. But I can’t imagine drowning in that foul place, pulled under, or maybe I can.

So why can’t I pull the trigger?

I lower the gun and watch the light on the surface of the water, then toss the gun out, as far as I can, and I know Playboy sees it swooping over him, ’cause his black eyes follow it. It splashes into the river about ten feet past his floating body.

I look toward my feet and the river’s edge. The dark water slaps at the muddy bank. It’s not even a foot deep at the edge and you still can’t see the bottom.

I take my suit coat off, survey the ground above me, looking for a clean spot, but there ain’t one.

“Shit,” I mumble.

I gently fold the suit coat and set it on a small strip of dead grass.

I step in the river. My feet sink into the mud, the cold water just below my knees. Playboy’s a couple of feet out. I pull my foot out of the mud to take another step and it’s like a mouth holding me in place.

Now that it’s got me it doesn’t wanna let me go.

I pull my right foot out of the mud and lose my shoe.

“Fuckin’ hell…”

The next step is a plunge and the water’s at my belly. The cold hits me with a sudden surge and I gasp and then belt out what was supposed to be “Fucking shit,” but sounds like,“Foggin-shh.”

I step on something I hope is a log and almost fall forward, but I reach for a small branch above my head to steady myself. I think about turning back ’cause I get a strong feeling this is it for me. This is how I’m supposed to go—in the worst possible way.

Playboy is right there in front of me. His head’s now just barely out of the water, but I know he sees me. I’m chest deep in this murk and ankle deep in muddy decay. The current is strong, but not so strong to take my feet out from under me. I feel for the next step and then reach for Playboy’s head. He goes under, but I manage to get my hand under his chin and pull him toward me.

When his head is at my chest I secure his chin between my forearm and bicep and slowly sidestep back to the bank, careful not to trip over any sunken debris, like a f*cking suitcase.

I struggle to the bank and push him halfway up so he’s on his side. His breathing is labored and snot bubbles out his nostrils. He’s scratched up pretty bad and his left kneecap is swollen to the size of a softball like it’s been dislocated.

I rip the duct tape off his mouth. He spits water, but not far enough to hit me.

“Don’t move or I’ll leave you where you are,” I tell him.

“Plea…” he struggles to say.

“And shut up.”

I kneel down so one knee is on the bank. I pull out my knife and fold it open. I cut the zip tie that binds his ankles to his wrists. He belts out a painful cry as his legs drop like he’s lost all muscle control, and his feet splash toes-first into the water. I grab his left ankle and pull it up and cut the zips from his ankles. His hands are still bound behind his back, but I don’t cut them free. I fold the knife back in place and slip it in my pants pocket.

I crawl on my hands and knees out of the water and onto the river’s nasty edge. The mud’s so thick it’s still caked on my socks and pants legs below my knees.

I grab him under the armpit and pull him out so he’s in a safer position on the bank. The heels of his feet are scraping the edge of the water.

“The rest is up to you,” I tell him, and then grab my suit coat to make my way back up to the car.

“I don’t think I can walk,” he snivels.

I turn to look down at him.

“That look you had out there, when you turned from me to the sky and you realized it was over—what was the first thought that came to you?”

He looks up at me, not quite sure how to answer.

I don’t expect him to, so I say, “You keep that thought with you. Don’t forget it ’cause if there’s ever a next time I’ll let you sink.”

He’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

I turn away and walk back to the car.





Eighty-one



I wash out the interior of the Toyota and then I park it about a block south of my house. I never expected to keep this car; I knew that when I bought it. Good thing about Toyotas is they are among the top ten most stolen vehicles in the District.

I strip off my suit in the laundry room and let it fall to the ground. It’ll never be the same. Doesn’t matter how good the dry cleaner is. They’ll never clean out what can’t be seen. I’ll let it dry on the ground and then watch it burn.

I don’t draw any lines, or drink scotch, or drop Klonopin. Just shower and sleep.

The first thing I do in the morning is take another long, hot shower. Then I dress comfortably—khakis and an old faded blue T-shirt.

I make some strong coffee and sit at the kitchen table to have a cigarette with it. I remember my cell is powered off, so I turn it on.