Donaldson let out a slow breath. He met Lucy’s eyes.
“Believe it or not, I’ve been thinking about what you said, while your friend was kicking the fuck out of me. About killing together or dying alone. I’m starting to like that idea.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“ Really really?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake-”
“Okay. If you want out of the cuffs, the key is up my ass. But you have to get it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious.”
“Why in the hell would you stick the key up your ass?”
“I knew you’d frisk me. I didn’t have any other place to put it.”
“Well, why do I have to get it?”
“You’ve killed a hundred and thirty people, and you’re getting squeamish at sticking your finger up a girl’s ass? Some people pay to do it.”
Donaldson just glared at her.
“Tick, tock,” Lucy said. “My friend will be back any minute.”
“Roll over.”
Lucy shifted onto her side. Donaldson stuck his hand down the back of her scrubs.
“Donaldson?”
“What?”
“Be gentle.”
“How do I know you don’t have a fucking rat trap up there? I don’t want to lose a finger.”
“The rat trap is in front, in case you tried to rape me.”
Donaldson grunted, running his hand over bandages, slipping it underneath and inside.
“How far up is it?”
“I don’t know. An inch or two? I lost fifteen percent of my ass in the car wreck. You’ll probably know you’ve found it when your fingers touch a key.”
“Goddamn it.”
“Wouldn’t it be funny if there was no key, D?”
“Asshole. And I mean that in every sense of the word. Wait…okay…I think I got it.”
He retrieved his hand, pinching a not-so-shiny handcuff key. “Explain to me why I had to do this, and not you?”
“I don’t want to get shit all over my hand.”
Swearing, Donaldson moved to unlock the cuffs just as Luther returned.
“Look who’s awake,” Luther said.
Donaldson hid the key under a pile of moldy hay.
Luther walked over and squatted down in front of Lucy and Donaldson. He smiled at Lucy.
Horrifying.
“Is it really you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I never thought I’d see you again.”
Luther reached out, touched the side of her face. “You’ve grown into a beautiful woman.”
“Thank you.”
Luther glanced at Donaldson, and then came to his feet. He lifted the kerosene lantern off the nail and carried it with him across the barn. The firelight splashed across a wall covered in ancient farm tools. Scythes of every size. Bill hooks. Sheep shears. Hay rakes. Axes. Hatchets. Sledgehammers. Drill spuds. Tail-docking shears. Yokes. Spades. Long-handled slashers. Hooks. Pruners. Pitchforks.
“I have my toolbox in the car,” Luther said, selecting the bill hook, “but I always like to make use of what’s around. You guys ever do that?”
“Can you pick a different one?” Lucy asked. “That one looks rusty. I wouldn’t want Donaldson to get tetanus.”
Luther chuckled.
“What exactly, darling, do you think is about to happen here? We tag team Fat Man and then I rush you back to the hospital?”
“Yeah, that sounds great.”
Luther returned the bill hook to the shelf and pulled down the pair of sheep shears. He started toward them, opening and closing the blades to dislodge the clumps of accumulated rust.
“I’m going to start with you, Lucy. Show me those pretty little feet.”
Lucy reached her hand down into her pants.