Steven Womack: By Blood Written

She stood there for what seemed like a long time. The only sounds were the lapping of the river against the sides of the pier and the distant din of traffic. She heard no sound inside the building.

But she knew he was there. She could feel him, sense him.

She debated calling out his name and chose to remain silent.

Her eyes were dilating; she could see the dark outline of shapes now-columns, windows, a wall to her right a few feet away, and farther down that wall, a hallway.

Something scraped against the concrete. She jerked toward the sound.

There was a snapping sound, then light. It was painfully bright, directly in her eyes. She turned her head away, squinting.

And there he was.

Michael stepped out from behind a column perhaps fifteen feet away, with an electric lantern in his right hand. He leaned over and set the lantern on the concrete floor. Taylor forced herself to look at him, to focus. He had dyed his hair blond and grown a scraggly beard. He wore a torn T-shirt and a ripped denim jacket, with a filthy pair of jeans and a scuffed pair of motorcycle boots. He looked dirty, thinner. The wealthy, famous New York Times best-selling author had disappeared into the anonymous sea of New York City’s homeless.

“Hello, Taylor,” he said, his voice even, calm.

“Michael,” she answered.

“It’s good to see you,” he offered. “I’ve missed you.”

Taylor watched him silently. He took a step toward her, then a couple of steps to the side, as if circling her. “I’ve got your money,” she said. She swung the bag back and forth with her left arm like a pendulum, then let it go toward him.

It hit the concrete with a scraping sound that echoed through the building.

She saw him smile in the dim light as he bent down to the bag. He unzipped it, pulled it open, and looked inside.

“Wow,” he said softly.

“It’s over,” Taylor said. “Go now.”

He yanked the zipper, closing the bag with a jerking motion. He stood back up, his right arm behind him. “Well, there is one little bit of unfinished business,” he said.

When his right hand came back around in front, he was holding something dark, oblong. He flicked his wrist and a snapping sound rang out.

Then Taylor saw it. The weak light from the lantern glinted off the blade in a spark. Taylor felt a lump in her chest, somewhere deep down inside her, at her core. The blade was long, as long as his hand. He smiled as he held it.

“I had so much fun with her the other night,” Michael said. “She was the best of all. You’ll be even better.”

“Why did you have to pick her?”

His smile widened even further. “C’mon, it’s every writer’s fantasy, killing your editor.” He stood there for a moment, motionless. Then he took a step toward her.

“You didn’t really think I was going to let you leave here, did you? After the way you betrayed me? Left me? Surely you’re not that stupid.”

“No,” Taylor answered. “I’m not that stupid. I never imagined you’d keep your word.”

Taylor pulled her hand out of the purse, the Hammerli-Walther gripped tightly. She pointed it at Michael as his smile disappeared.

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

“This is over, Michael,” she said. “I’m going to get my phone out of my pocket and call the police. And you’re going to stand there while I do.”

His smile came back. “Oh,” he said, meanly, “your brother’s pistol. What was his name? Jack? Yes, Jack. The brother you killed.”

“Shut up, Michael. Just shut up.” Taylor reached inside her coat pocket for her cell phone. Michael took a step toward her. “Stay there,” she ordered.

He shook his head. “No, Taylor. I’m not going back to jail.

You’ll have to kill me.”

He started walking toward her, the knife held out in front of him. “Stop, Michael!” she barked. “Get back over there!”

He kept coming. She raised the pistol. “Stop!”

Ten feet away now …

“Stop! “

Two more steps. She sighted down the barrel, drew in a breath, as Jack had taught her, then let it out slowly and squeezed the trigger.

A sharp metallic crack erupted as the hammer hit the dead cartridge. Misfire.

She screamed, turned to run. He grunted, lunged for her.

She threw the pistol at him, missed, then swung her purse at him, hard. The leather strap caught his outstretched hand and got tangled in it. They both jerked away hard.

In the darkness, the knife fell, clattering on the concrete.

He was on her now. She held out her arms. He swung wide, caught the side of her head. Taylor went down on the concrete, her shoulders and back taking the brunt of the fall. She gasped as the breath was knocked partially out of her.

He jumped on her, furious, his eyes wide, grinning horribly. She threw up a leg, trying to kick between his legs, and missed. But it threw him off balance. He landed only partially on her.

She tried to roll away, but he was too fast, too strong. He grabbed her shoulders and slammed her into the hard floor, the back of her head snapping against the concrete. She heard a noise, a strange, ugly combination of a yelp and a moan, then realized the sound was coming from her.

He straddled her chest, his hands around her neck now, squeezing hard, like a vise on her throat. In the dim light, she saw him smile down at her, the light glinting off his teeth. She felt a rage inside her she’d never felt before, a rage so powerful that for a brief moment, it even overcame her fear. She fought and bucked and scratched at him, but he held on, smiling meanly down at her.

“Let go, baby,” he whispered. “Just let go.”

Taylor felt her vision dimming, sparkles tingling in her peripheral vision. A thought raced through her mind.

He’s actually going to do this!

She kicked her legs in the air as he sat on her chest, strangling her. She was flailing now, helplessly, uselessly. Then she felt her right foot hit something loose on the floor and she kicked involuntarily again, dragging whatever it was closer to her.

Her arms were slapping at him. Still he stayed on top of her. She brought her right arm down beside his leg, flapping like a child making snow angels.

Then she felt it. Her right hand brushed against it, her fingertips retaining just enough feeling and control to realize what her legs had kicked toward her.

The knife.

The handle was hard, cold. She felt it with her fingertips, just out of reach.

But her vision … She couldn’t breathe, her throat closed off, the sparkles. Couldn’t think. Can’t think anymore .

She squeezed her chest as hard as she could to raise him up just a hair, then kicked her legs, scraping her body just a little to the right.

Her fingers wrapped around the knife handle. In her hand now …

All going black.

She brought her arm up, then swung, wide and hard, the knife blade sparkling in the light as it slashed in slow motion across and in front of her, above her, at Michael.

He jumped back, loosening his grip on her throat. She sucked in a huge gulp of air as the thin line across the front of his neck widened into a pencil’s width.

“You fucking bitch!” he screamed. He let go of her completely and brought his hands to his neck, just as a spurt of oily, syrupy thick blood erupted in a shower across the front of his chest and onto Taylor.

He tried to jump to his feet, but stumbled and fell backward, landing on his hips on the hard concrete. She jerked upright, rubbing her neck with her left hand, the knife held tightly in her right.

She saw his face in the yellow lantern light as he looked down on his chest, blood pouring out of his neck. He glared up at her. “Jesus,” he squeaked. “Look what you did.”