Paul Cleave - The Killing Hour

The shotgun touches my cheek. The barrel is steel and as cold as ice. I stop dead. My blood drains into the balls of my feet.

“Grab a cuff from the handgrip, Feldman, and put it back on.”

I don’t even try to argue it. It’s hard undoing it, but I get there. Then I wrap one bracelet around my wrist and do it up. Then the other.

“Don’t hold back now, Feldman. Make sure they’re nice and tight.”

I look around as I tighten the cuffs. There’s no help here. I try not to grimace as the metal bites into the bones of my wrists.

“Keys?”

The barrel is still touching my face as I flick the keys to the edge of the seat. Holding the weapon in one arm he lowers himself and, keeping his eyes on me, reaches for them. I watch them disappear into a pocket and only now do I realize he’s changed out of his cheap suit into jeans, a flannel shirt, and a dark jacket. He’s wearing a cap that says Kiss the Cook. The rain hits the brim and rolls off the edges. His loafers have been replaced with hiking boots. He’s also wearing leather gloves.

“Come on out and don’t try anything funny, Feldman. I don’t have the patience for any trouble.”

I slowly climb from the car. On legs shaking from near cramp, cold, and terror, I stand and step forward. To my left I can hear a river.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks.

“Not as much as you.”

In a blistering movement I’m on the ground, my eyes swimming in their sockets, bright lights circling them. I manage to look up at Landry, but struggle to focus on him. What I can see is the shotgun in his hand, the butt facing me, and through a mind drowning in red-hot pain I slowly understand the connection. I manage to stay on my knees for a few more seconds before spilling onto my side. My jaw is throbbing. I think I’ll lie here forever. Before I get the chance he drags me to my feet and props me against the car. He slaps me around the face, hard, as though this is going to help me think straight.

“Okay, Mr. Smartmouth, neither of us wants that to happen again, and it won’t, as long as you cooperate and stop being such a smart prick.”

My eyes are struggling to focus and it feels like I’m trying to tune his words in from far away, but yeah, I get his point. He grabs a handful of my hair and shoves my head backward.

“Do you understand?”

My ears hurt and I slowly nod, not wanting him to scream again. The motion is nearly enough to make me vomit.

He steps back and tracks me with the weapon. “Now step forward.”

I stumble forward.

“Behind you is a cabin. It’s probably not up to your expectations, but it won’t kill you. We’re going to walk over there and you’re going to make your way inside. Just keep in mind that this is a Mossberg pump-action shotgun, Mr. Smartmouth. . ” He pauses. “Can I call you Mr. Smartmouth?”

I nod and it hurts.

“Just keep thinking about the shotgun. Keep thinking about what it can do to you. Now hurry up, or are you waiting for an invitation?”

I turn around. My view shifts from the shotgun and the man behind it back to the car and the cabin beyond. Though calling it a cabin is a fairly generous term. It has the minimum number of walls required to hold up a ceiling and be labeled a building. It looks to be the size of a small one-bedroom house. The walls are warped and knotted, made from a mixture of woods. The side wall I can see is made from weatherboards, while the wall closest with the glass sliding door is constructed from plywood and fence pales and plenty of sealant. The roof is made from aluminum sheeting. Without any guttering to catch and drain the rain, a small moat has formed around the cabin. A wooden porch extends a few feet from the sliding door and the roof extends above it. The glass part of the door is covered in grime, but isn’t broken or cracked. Pine needles stick to the glass all along the bottom. The metal runners have darkened with mud and rust. It’s hard to imagine anybody dragging these pieces out here in their car and constructing this small home away from home. Hard to imagine some do-it-yourselfer walking through a scrap heap and coming across these bits of wood and tin and getting the final image of this cabin in his mind.

Hard to imagine anybody would go to this effort.

Yet somebody has. Perhaps the same somebody standing behind me.

I walk past the car and climb up onto the porch. It creaks beneath my weight, but I don’t fall through. Inside the air is just as cold. The rain yells on the roof, but I can’t see any signs of leakage. There are two rooms. We’re standing in the main one. Surprisingly, the inside of the cabin has been lined, so instead of seeing the same weatherboards and the same fence pales along with some framing, it’s been lined with plywood. There’s a fireplace, a bench, and a couple of soft chairs that look like they may have swallowed a few animals over the years. Landry closes the sliding door, locking out the rain and any hope I have of getting out of this place alive.

“Sit down,” he says, pointing me to the larger of the two chairs. Its fading pattern of yellow flowers doesn’t make it look even remotely comfortable. Nor do the worn gashes with escaping foam and protruding springs. I fall into it. The broken framework pulls my body right to the back so my feet come off the ground. I rest my handcuffed hands in my lap. I can smell pine and mildew. Landry lights a match, and then in turn lights a lantern. It has a glass shell dotted with mold, but lights up the cabin a hell of a lot better than his flashlight does. Then he lights another one and puts it in the opposite corner of the cabin. Then he sits in the opposite chair. His is a checkered, brown-and-black pattern that somebody could play chess on. Next to him on the floor is a duffel bag. It’s unzipped, and I can see the clothes he was wearing earlier are folded up inside it.

An oval rug in the center of the floor is stained with mud and animal hair. The open fireplace is made from brick and cinder block with a chimney that is a long metal tube not much wider than my leg. At the moment it’s set with blocks of wood and yellow newspaper, but hasn’t been lit. Landry either likes the cold or doesn’t plan on being here long.

He rests the shotgun across his legs then sighs. No possible way can I get to him before he gets to his gun, not the way the chair is trying to eat me. I figure that’s the whole point. He looks tired.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says.

“I’m not so sure you do.”

His hands clutch the Mossberg tightly. “Jesus, why in the hell do you have to keep on being so smart? Can’t you take anything seriously?”

I shake my head. “I wasn’t being smart. I’m taking this seriously. I’m just saying you don’t know what I’m thinking.” It’s hard not to stumble over my sentences, but I manage it. I’m scared. I know it and he knows it. So far it’s all we have in common. He lets go of the shotgun, leans back into his chair, and starts nodding.

“You’re wondering if this is my place. You’re wondering if I’ve brought people out here before. I’m right, aren’t I?”

I nod. He’s right.

“It belonged to a guy just like you. I caught him. It’s a while back now.”

“Did you give him a trial too?”

“Jesus, Feldman.”

“You’re making a big mistake. I didn’t kill anybody, and if you give me the chance to-”

“Shut up, okay? Do you know how many times I’ve heard guys like you tell me they’re innocent? I don’t need to hear it from you. All I want to hear from you is a confession.”

“Look, I know how you feel, I can understand-”

“You can’t understand anything, Feldman, you really can’t. I’m sick,” he says, and slowly he shakes his head. “I’m sick of dealing with all of this. Sick of people who kill for the hell of it, just for fun. I see these people go to jail, I see them released, and then I see them reoffend. They’re predators, and that will never change. They’ll always be among us. Their faces change, but their thoughts never do. They live among us doing what evil men do. I thought I’d seen everything. But there will always be worse.”