Bobby Akart - Whiteout

“You startled me!” exclaimed Phoebe as she angrily turned on the water tap and ran cold water over her finger. “Patrick?”

“I’m sorry, Phoebe. That wasn’t my intention. I thought I was doing a good thing by returning my tray to save you a trip in the morning.”

Phoebe took a deep breath and exhaled, almost blowing out the candle next to her cutting board. Admittedly, she’d been a little jumpy, so the self-inflicted cut was as much her fault as it was Patrick’s.

“No problem, Patrick. That’s very kind of you. Would you mind setting it in the sink over here while I rinse this out?” She turned back to the sink and continued to run water over the gash on top of her knuckle. It was in one of those locations that would take forever to heal because the finger was constantly bending.

Patrick walked slowly toward her, his eyes darting around the room to assess his options. Everything was perfect to start his big night. As predicted, Jimmy and Jessica were off Driftwood Key, performing their duties for the sheriff’s department. He’d hidden among the palm trees as Sonny turned off the generator. He’d followed him through the trails as he went to the caretaker’s house located behind the greenhouses to catch several hours of sleep before he relieved Hank at the gate. Patrick sighed as he thought of how easy it would’ve been to kill Sonny along the path. If only he’d had a knife.

Hank, along with Mike, was manning the entrance to Driftwood Key. With both Jimmy and Jessica off-island, they weren’t able to have their usual fireside chat on the beach.

As he got closer to the sink and the countertop where she was cutting the carrots, his eyes adjusted to the candlelit room. He saw the butcher block with the cutting utensils protruding out, handle first. Scissors. Steak knives. Several butcher knives. Even a sharpener. It was a serial killer’s dream.

Patrick’s heart raced as Phoebe droned on about something or another. She spewed meaningless words like anyone who was nervous in a tense situation. His adrenaline had reached a level he hadn’t experienced since he’d fought off his attackers that night. Unfortunately, he had been outnumbered by three drug-fueled maniacs who got the better of him.

He gently set the tray on the kitchen island behind Phoebe and eased up behind her. She turned off the water faucet and reached for a kitchen towel to her right. Patrick made his move.

He rushed forward and reached for the butcher knife. It slipped out of his hands, so he lunged again, pressing his body against Phoebe’s.

She was pinned against the kitchen counter.

“What are you doin’?” she shouted as she tried to twist away.

Her eyes caught a glimpse of Patrick reaching for the knife that had slid off the cutting board. She writhed and squirmed to get away, but couldn’t.

Patrick grasped the knife and made a clumsy attempt to pull the knife toward Phoebe’s chest. The blade tore through her shirt and sliced open her right shoulder blade.

“Arrggh! Help!” she shouted as loud as her surprised mind would allow.

Phoebe dropped to her knees and grasped her shoulder to stem the flow of blood pouring through her fingers. No longer pinned down, she tried to scramble away from Patrick.

He, too, dropped to his knees and grabbed one of her ankles. He tugged at her but only managed to pull off her sock and sneaker.

“Help! Anyone! Help me!” Primal fear had overtaken Phoebe as she begged for someone to help her. She continued to pull herself along the floor with one arm, but Patrick grabbed her other ankle, arresting her advance.

He raised the knife high over his head and thrust it downward to stab her again. He nicked her calf but just barely.

The tip of the bloodied knife embedded in the wood floor, and Phoebe jerked her leg from the sharp, serrated edge. Shocked by the pain soaring through her body, she began crawling again until she reached the work desk where her journal was laid open. She reached up with her left hand and felt around the tabletop until she found what she was looking for.

Phoebe swung around and fired blindly in Patrick’s direction. Bullets flew around the kitchen, obliterating glassware and penetrating the cabinets.

Patrick was still coming.

Phoebe’s hand shook as she tried to steady her aim. He growled, emitting a guttural snarl that frightened her into shooting again. She found her target.

The bullet struck Patrick in the side, striking just below the rib cage near the liver. Having missed anything solid other than layers of fat and connective tissue, it went through him before plugging the front of the refrigerator.

Patrick’s body spun around, and he fell backwards from the force of the impact. Phoebe fired again, striking his left hand, shattering the bones and severing the ulnar artery.

“Dammit!” shouted Patrick in pain and frustration. He crawled behind the kitchen island and managed to stand to rush out the door. This was going horribly wrong, and now he had to find a way to escape.

Tuesday, November 5

Driftwood Key

Still clutching the knife in his right hand while his fractured left hand tried to stem the bleeding from his side, Patrick stumbled out of the main house into the darkness. The confidence and mental acuity he’d possessed when he began his attack on Phoebe was lost. Now he was wounded, frightened, and on the run, in search of a way off Driftwood Key.

He’d lost track of where he was. The loss of blood and excruciating pain resulted in a sort of brain fog that clouded his thinking. His mind raced as he tried to recall all his options. A debate raged within him.

Do I run across the bridge, retracing the steps I took that night to get here? Wait, Mike and Hank might be there. No, they always drink down by the water after dinner. Not tonight, Patrick. They’re manning the front gate. You can’t go that way. Steal a boat. They’ll never find you in the dark. What if I run down the dock and the keys aren’t there? I’ll be trapped.

His mind finally screamed at him as the voices of Mike, Hank and Sonny shouting filled the air. Just hide!

He raced behind the main house to the densely vegetated part of the key. He stumbled along a path, lowering his head to avoid the palms that seemed to defy gravity by growing sideways. He was sweating profusely and made the mistake of wiping his brow with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Patrick wasn’t sure if the blood was his or Phoebe’s. Regardless, it smeared across his face and into his eyes, causing them to burn.

Then he ran head-on into Sonny. The two men collided and knocked one another backwards. Patrick dropped the knife and reached around the ground in search of it.

“Arrrgghhh!” shouted Sonny as he pounced on top of Patrick’s legs.

Sonny threw a punch that hit his already bruised kidneys, causing Patrick to yell in pain. As Patrick struggled to get out from under Sonny’s weight, he found the knife’s handle. He swung his arm around with a slicing motion in an attempt to cut into Sonny’s arm. He was holding the knife backwards, so the sharp edge missed its target.

Phoebe shouted, “Sonny! Help me!”

Sonny became distracted, giving Patrick an opening. He thrust his hips upward and threw Sonny off to the side. Patrick rolled away, found his footing, and continued running down the path. He could hear Phoebe call her husband’s name again, and Sonny responded. His heavy footsteps pounded the crushed shell mixed with sand as he rushed to the kitchen’s back door.

Patrick’s heart was pounding in his chest, and the sweat continued to pour out of him despite the cold temperatures. He ran into a thick cluster of palm trees and leaned his back against one of them as he tried to regroup.