Paul Cleave - The Killing Hour

“Where are we going?” Feldman asks.

“Have you forgotten what I told you?”

“We’re heading out of the city. You’re not taking me to the police station, are you?”

“No,” he says, and what this is leading to isn’t murder, not really, not in the same sense of the word that Feldman is a murderer. It’s more like an exchange. A two-for-one bargain. He can’t save Kathy or Luciana, but he can save the next girl. That can’t be a bad thing. Not really. It can’t be a bad thing to live with. And perhaps Jo is that next girl.

“Where are we going?” Feldman asks.

“You need to shut up,” he says.

“Are you going to kill me?” Feldman asks.

“Maybe.”

“I didn’t do it,” Feldman says, his voice panicky now. “I know you think I did, but I didn’t.”

“You’ll get your day in court,” he says.

“I thought you just said-”

Landry pulls over. Feldman shuts up. Landry turns around and points the gun at him. “One more word, Feldman, and this ends right now. Nod if you understand.”

Feldman nods.

“You’ll get your chance to talk,” he says, “but not here and not now. But soon. When we get where we’re going. You say one more word before then and your brains are going to paint the back of my car, and neither of us wants that, do we,” he says, knowing how much cleaning that would take. Not from experience-but he’s seen gunshot wounds to heads before and knows what can happen.

Feldman shakes his head.

“Good,” he says, and he puts the gun back onto the passenger seat, puts the car into gear, and carries on driving.

My wrists are hurting. I try to make myself more comfortable, but it’s impossible. Time starts slipping by. We skirt the edges of town where property looks rough, but is usually expensive because of its location. The loop starts to get wider. We begin hitting the outer edges of suburbs. Different economic diversities. Nice homes. Nice people. Bad homes. Bad people. We keep driving. We end up going west, right out of the city. Landry’s cell phone rings. He ignores it. A minute later it rings again, he looks at the display, then switches it off.

There isn’t much in the way of traffic. Not much in the way of lighting. Just long, dark highways, boarded by long, dark fields full of crops and animals, all being grown so the rest of us don’t go hungry. Landry said that maybe he’s going to kill me, but I think he’s already made up his mind. He said I’ll get my day in court, and I think that that day is today. It’s tonight. It will be a court in the middle of nowhere, one where I plead not guilty and still end up hanging from a tree. I wonder how many others he’s done this to. I wonder if it’s standard practice, that Landry is one of many cops who think they’re doing the world a favor. And he would be-no doubt there-if he had the right guy.

I keep looking out the window, trying to figure out where we’re going-as if it actually matters, as if the location is the relevant point here and not the fact that Landry is crazy. Twenty minutes pass silently. Landry keeps the same pace. I’m hoping he’s using the miles we’re putting between us and the city to good use, that he’s thinking things over and coming to the conclusion that he needs to turn around and take me back into the city. I need a lawyer. I need my chance to explain things. The hum of the motor and the slight clinking coming from my handcuffs are the only sound. I can’t lean back because the pull on my wrists is too strong. My lower back starts to get sore. The first drops of rain splash lightly on the roof, slowly at first, then it picks up until it becomes a constant thick patter. Landry turns on the wipers- wubwud, wubwud.

Another twenty minutes go by and all I’m looking at are black hills. My back gets sorer. I get more scared. I want to say something, but I’m convinced if I try I won’t even get the trial he’s planning. It may be crazy, but that trial is still the only chance I have.

We hit the hour mark. Are we ever going to stop? The rain is really heavy now. Ninety minutes and it’s just long, straight roads and no car lights ahead or behind us and I desperately need to take a leak. I close my eyes and ride it out in silence. It’s all I can do. The tires start bumping over a gravel road and we come to a skidding halt. Landry steps out, shifting the weight of the car so it bounces up slightly. He moves into the path of the headlights where he swings open a chain-link fence. I can hear its hinges squeak over the noise of the rain. They sound like a coffin lid being pried open. I have large, red indentations around my wrists visible under the car’s interior light. As the skin swells the cuffs get tighter.

Landry comes back. There is water dripping from his jacket and ears. He glares at me, a look that suggests I’m to blame for everything that’s ever gone wrong in the world. He puts his seatbelt back on. We roll forward. He doesn’t close the gate behind him. The gravel peters out as the surface becomes dirt. The back wheels spin occasionally as they fail to find traction in the mud. The driveway becomes bumpier and painful because every small bounce is amplified through my wrists. We only drive five minutes before we come to another stop. He kills the engine. I can hear rain and I can hear each of us breathing. The headlights shine over the trees ahead of us. The dashboard lights shine over Landry, making his skin look orange. I peer out the window to my left. Only darkness. To my right is the same.

Landry turns off the lights. We’re in complete darkness. He opens the door and the interior light comes on, making it difficult for me to look outside as my reflection continually gets in the way. He gets out and lets the door close behind him, but it doesn’t latch, so the light stays on. I stare at my reflection as if it’s another person who can help me, but it’s only somebody else who’s letting me down. Landry disappears. I keep glancing at my watch as if time is suddenly my greatest ally. My ass is sore, my back is throbbing, and my neck is stiff. My arms and legs are cramping, especially my shoulders. My headache is back. I have the urge to cry. I have the urge to scream at the world and tell it that it’s not playing fair.

I wonder how far from the Garden City we’ve come. Out here it’s just one huge garden. Miles of it. It’s as if God created too many trees for Eden and dumped the surplus. Landry pops open the trunk. A jangle of keys, a few thuds and bangs, and then it’s slammed shut. Then nothing for about five minutes. He’s carrying a flashlight and I watch it light up the area as he’s walking. There’s a structure out there to the left, some kind of shack, but I can’t see any detail because of the reflection inside the car. He walks up the porch steps and goes inside, and then all I can see is a glowing light from behind glass. I stare at it, but it doesn’t move. He’s resting the flashlight on something. I pull at the handcuffs. I pull at the handgrip they’re attached to. I put my feet into the side of the door and use all my strength. It’s no good.

The glow of the flashlight moves again. Landry comes back out. He opens my door, leans in, and undoes one set of handcuffs. They dangle from the handgrip. He throws the keys for the remaining cuffs at my feet.

“Don’t waste my time, Feldman.”

He stands a few yards from the car. Rain pours around him, but he doesn’t seem to care. He has the air of a man who knows not to bother trying to stay dry because he plans on spending more time getting wet. He’s watching me with the barrel of a shotgun. I’m not sure where his handgun is.

The handcuffs are difficult to unlock. My hands are sore and my fingers are shaking. Rain is blowing into the car and I blink away what to Landry must look like tears. Finally I manage to get the key into the small slot, then both hands are free. I almost faint with relief.