“We’ve both been on the news. People knew we were at that hospital.”
Donaldson’s face scrunched up. “What are you saying?”
“Maybe one of our victims has family. Family who are pissed off.”
Through the windshield, they watched the driver side door of that car swing open.
A dark figure stepped out.
“Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Donaldson said.
The driver was tall and thin. He stood for a moment next to his car, a waxing gibbous moon behind him, the Honda’s headlights washing out his features.
Then he began to walk toward them, his black boots kicking up little spirals of dust in his wake.
“Want to hand me those scissors?” Donaldson asked.
The man’s face shone pale in the moonlight. And razor thin. The night air blew wisps of his long black hair, causing it to wrap around his face and stick to his thin, colorless lips.
Lucy dug the pair of scissors out of the waistband of her scrubs and handed them over to Donaldson.
“He looks familiar,” she said.
“You sure you killed twenty-nine? Maybe it was twenty-eight, and the last one is just pissed off.”
She let out a trembling breath. “No way. This can’t be him.”
The man was ten feet from the front bumper, and neither Donaldson nor Lucy could take their eyes off of him.
“Now would be a good time to fill me in,” Donaldson said.
“When I was fifteen, I ran away from home to a mystery book convention in Indianapolis to see my favorite author, Andrew Z. Thomas. While I was there, I killed for the first time. It was messy. I didn’t know what I was doing. I would’ve gotten myself caught, but these two guys…the ones I was telling you about earlier? They found me out. They came into the hotel room and-”
The man stopped at Donaldson’s window and rapped hard against the glass.
“Just tell me…is he a friend or foe?” Donaldson whispered.
“I’m not sure.”
Keeping the scissors palmed, Donaldson pressed the button on his door.
The window lowered halfway.
“Can I help you, buddy?” Donaldson said.
The man ducked down to look inside.
When his face appeared, Lucy said, “Holy shit, you’re-”
“Luther. Luther Kite. That you, little Lucy? Last time I saw you, you didn’t even have a driver’s license. Now look at you, on the TV, getting yourself into all sorts of trouble.”
Lucy’s face scrunched up. “Luther?”
Luther stuck the barrel of a gun into the car. When he pulled the trigger, it sounded like a hard blast of air.
Both Lucy and Donaldson stared down at the dart sticking out of Lucy’s chest.
She took a deep, sucking breath, like the wind had been knocked out of her.
Lucy rasped, “Why are you…” but never finished her sentence. She fell back into the passenger-side door, eyes closed, mouth yawning open.
Donaldson reached for the gun, but Luther jerked it back outside.
“Look… Luther is it?… there’s no love lost between me and this one. If you want some private time with the lady, she’s all yours.”
“Seems like you two are a package deal.” He jutted his chin toward their wrists. “What’s that all about?”
“Crazy bitch handcuffed us together.”
“Well, are you joined for life or do you have the key?”
“She’s got the key.”
Luther leveled the dart gun on Donaldson’s head. “Maybe you should find it.”
Donaldson leaned over and clumsily groped Lucy’s scrubs, checking various pockets. He came up empty.
“It’s not here,” he said. “She wouldn’t tell me where-”
Luther reached into the car with his other hand and grabbed Donaldson’s good ear. His only ear.
“Get out of the car.”
“I want to obey you. Really. But my arm and my legs are fucked up, and I’m chained to this psycho here. Did you know she’s a serial killer?”
“She do this to you?”
“Yeah. Hell, you can do whatever you want to her. I’ll even take pictures if you want.”
“You were on the news.”
“Really?”
“They said you were a monster. Maybe the most prolific killer since Green River.”
“They got it wrong. She’s the monster. I’m just a victim.”